


The Galaxy’s Oasis

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Chill, Hand Jobs, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Spock follows his dreams, and one falls to him.





	1. Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Rating is for future chapters.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The dining room chairs are the final piece of décor in Spock’s new desert home. Spock sets six around his table—two on either elongated side, and one at either head. Logistically, it doesn’t make much sense—it’s very unlikely that he should have any visitors, let alone five at once. Yet stylistically, the table calls for six exactly. There is a certain value in the art of home décor. A neat, orderly house with a welcoming, attractive finish speaks well of its owner. Such buildings are a mark of the extent of evolution in sentient beings. Spock intends for his home, for all its isolation and emptiness, to still present well.

There is another side to it. As he walks around the table, adjusting each chair in its place to reflect perfect symmetry, he knows that such distractions are wearing thing. With this, the final touch, there is nothing left to occupy his attention with idle designs. He will instead be forced to relocate his attention to his next task, one that should indeed be far more pressing than five redundant chairs. Spock lingers on the last one, minutely shuffling it across the smoothed rock floor. 

Finally, Spock forces his hands to fall away from the padded backrest. His dining hall is complete. The curved walls and arched ceiling bear enough glass cutouts to let in the sun, and it washes across the newly renovated room in a warm but unforgiving glow. Despite the softness of the architecture, the desert climate always seems to find a way to make everything seem harsher. Or perhaps Spock’s projecting again. That’s what his father would say.

If he moves onto his next task, mounting the appropriate satellites atop his roof, it’ll become infinitely more unlikely that he should ever hear such scolding again. He’s already moved away, far beyond both his father and the city, out into the remote recesses along the Voroth Sea. That in itself is a betrayal, but not one that can’t be recovered from. When he commits his _career_ to one of the few sciences Vulcan doesn’t embrace, his fate will be sealed. 

If he works his satellites properly, if he studiously commits himself to astronomy, if he actively pursues the search for other intelligent life, _then_ it will all be over. His already tenuous relationship with his father will snap. He will have lost his chance to ever be accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy, to have proper peers, to gain any respect, to _fit in_. But Spock’s never fit in, and he’s grown up enough to accept that that’s unlikely to change. It’s no longer just that he’s the only Vulcan he knows that doesn’t know a thing about his mother, that his father always seems perpetually disappointed in him, or that he can’t look at the stars without wondering _what’s out there._ It’s the very fundamentals of his life. He finds himself avoiding tasks that he already knows are necessary, because he’s _nervous_ about losing _his father’s love_ , and that’s so very _not Vulcan_ that it gals him. He’s well into adulthood. He passed his kahs-wan long ago. He has no business being so _emotional_.

But he traitorously is. Spock continues ignoring the large boxes scattered about his lounge and putters into the kitchen to brew a pot of tea.

* * *

When he does finally get around to setting up the satellites, it proves more physically taxing than he’d anticipated. The boxes are heavy, meant to be carried and attended by a team of people, but Spock has no one but himself. He lugs them up the ladder one at a time, sets them on his slanted roof, and unpacks them under the sweltering sun. He’d thought, perhaps, that the breeze off the nearby sea would mitigate some of that problem, but it has little effect. He can glimpse the water in the far distance, but the waves are relatively still. The only sounds beside the muffled hum of his house’s fan are the occasional, distant cry of a stray le-matya. Spock considers bringing up a PADD to set on the more soothing music of a lyre, but at that point, he can’t bring himself to carry even one more thing up the ladder.

He manages to install the first dish, but the metal is too hot to wire in to the rest of his home. He casts the provided tarp over it for shade and accepts that he’ll have to return another time. It should cool down enough in the evening, and that will give him time between to shower and to meditate. 

He wonders briefly if it would be viable to put it off for another day, but he knows it would be illogical. And as far as Spock moved from the rest of his culture, he isn’t willing to abandon their most basic tenants. Logic dictates that he must complete his task, so he will.

* * *

It’s a little more difficult in the dark, but the light of T’Rukh is just enough to see by, and that’s enough to justify not going down to fetch more proficient equipment. In that pale glow, Spock sets the satellite’s connections precisely as the manual describes. Once they’re finished, he’ll then be able to tweak the individual settings from his own computer. It takes the better part of an hour to completely get the first dish up and running, and then it’s onto unpacking the second, which proves much easier in the more forgiving temperature. Spock estimates that, should he continue at his present pace, the entire network should be completed within four days. 

He’s sitting cross-legged in the center of his roof when the first inkling comes—a flash of light in the corner of his eye directs his vision upwards. He eyes the sparkling sky, the stars brilliant against the deep ebony of space. Everything is as it’s always been, save for one irregular dot, pulsating and flickering, growing swiftly larger. Spock’s hands freeze on the second dish’s half unloaded box. All of his attention hones in on that one orb—that falling object plummeting down towards him. Spock’s breath holds.

There was no meteor warning. Whether or not he was at his terminal, his home’s computer would have altered him. It can’t be a Vulcan apparatus. A similar warning would be issued, and besides, Vulcan equipment doesn’t _fall._ It’s built to last. 

That leaves only one option. A part of Spock shouts to jump from the roof, race indoors, setup the first satellite and record whatever scans that one alone can manage. But there isn’t time. And Spock can’t move. He’s paralyzed with shock and wonder as the figure barrels down. 

As a giant ball of blinding light, likely more compressed atmosphere than mass, Spock watches the object streaks by him, disappearing over the low hills of night-blue sand. He feels the tremours of it, surely made lighter for that loose topsoil, and he has to snatch at several of the screws before they go rolling off the roof. Whatever it was, it’s landed. And relatively close.

Spock’s heart has never beat so fast. He has the learned response to mediate—to calm himself and think on the situation before he acts.

But this is far beyond the scope of everything he’s learned, and Spock moves straight towards the ladder.

* * *

He reaches the location at a slow, cautious pace, and he pulls the hover bike to a stop once he’s within sight of it. The tricorder strapped to his waist hasn’t notified him of any radiation, but he double-checks it anyway, then does a material scan of the area. Many of the compounds read as only question marks, and some as formulae that have only been theorized, others that should be impossible. It confirms what Spock already suspected. As soon as the scan’s finished, he returns the tricorder to its holster and drives to the edge of the crater.

The large, hollowed-out semi-sphere was undoubtedly formed by the crash—disheveled rocks and upturned shrubbery litter the sloped sides, and he has to be careful in his descent. He leaves the bike parked above and moves forward on feet alone. He keeps an eye out for life, but there is no movement in the pit—not even the scurry of creeping snakes or insects. The air feels strangely still. Spock pushes through it, through the thoughts of trepidation, pulled on an invisible string. The sizeable ship in front of him, clearly some kind of _ship_ or shuttle or even escape pod, must have something in it. _Someone_ in it. And that’s the exact thing that Spock’s spent his life believing. 

The official Vulcan stance isn’t that there’s _no_ other intelligent life in the universe. Only that it must be so few and far between that the likelihood of it reaching Vulcan soil is negligible. He distinctly remembers a respected professor passively reciting, “If they are out there, they will come to us eventually, or eventually, we shall evolve and find them in due time.” When Spock had asked _why not now_ , the professor had looked at him like _he_ was some sort of alien, and Spock kept the rest of his curiosity to himself.

Surely even that professor would see the logic in Spock’s current conclusion. The structure is clearly not of Vulcan make. Even if Vulcan had, for some reason, begun working on spacecrafts in utter secrecy, Spock knows they wouldn’t have looked like this. The dust-covered markings on the side of its hull are nothing like any dialect Vulcan’s ever known. Spock takes another scan, saving several pictures. 

When he’s finished, there’s still been no sign of movement. On the off chance that whoever’s inside has been observing Vulcan long enough to understand their language, Spock tells no one in particular, “Welcome to our planet. We accept you in peace.” But there’s no answer, just as he expected.

For a few minutes, Spock simply observes the structure, walking slowly around it and taking in different parts. There is no sign of structural damage, and what Spock assumes to be the front is covered in what looks to be unblemished tinted glass, but clearly isn’t. It would need to be something much stronger to withstand the vacuum of space. Spock takes another reading of it. And he stands in front of it, wondering if whoever’s inside can see him. He offers the Vulcan salute, but to no avail. 

Coming back around to the side, Spock finds what he believes to be a door. There’s a protrusion on it, one he’d previously dismissed as ornamental, but now believes might be some sort of handle. His fingers fit snugly around it, suggesting a Vulcanoid species of similar proportion. Spock holds on tightly, tighter than he means to, and finds he has to take a steadying breath—his pulse still hasn’t slowed.

Then he gives the handle a firm tug that results in nothing.

His fingers explore the handle further. He finds two depressible notches that allow the handle to move forward and be rotated. He tries using it at different angles, pressing the buttons in different combination, hoping for some sort of manual override, and finally, it works.

The metallic siding groans, and with a considerable show of strength, Spock is able to ease the door sideways. It reveals bit by bit of a darkened interior that takes Spock’s breath away.

What little he can see through the blackness is nothing more than a row of built in chairs and a long cylinder along the floor. The design doesn’t look Vulcan. But neither does it look entirely _alien_. Spock waits one tense moment, then schools his voice as steady as he can and announces, “Greetings.”

There is no answer. But when he strains, he thinks he can hear a small, fixed noise, not unlike shallow breathing. 

If asked, he would argue that his actions were motivated purely by the pursuit of knowledge. There is no curiosity, no intangible gut feeling involved. With that mantra in his head, Spock risks climbing through the hatch. All of his sense are hyper-focused on his surroundings, and he’s acutely aware of the _deadness_ within the shuttle. There aren’t even blinking lights. 

But there is a figure slumped in the seat at the front, backlit by the remnants of T’Rukh through the glass-like feature. 

From behind, it doesn’t look like the figure is conscious. Spock is tense anyway. He’s cautious anyway. He stands where he is, feebly repeating some form of greeting, before he finally wills himself forward. He half fears finding some horrible injury to explain the crash, or else some alien so nauseatingly _different_ that the effect would be physically disorienting. But he meets nothing like that. 

The being looks... startlingly _Vulcan_.

It’s a young man, Spock thinks, by the standards that he knows—one with a gentle, handsome face, and all the same features Spock would expect—one set of slightly parted, pink lips, one small, trim nose, two eyes currently closed with dark brown lashes. The first difference Spock notices is the strange roundness of his ears, utterly lacking the upper part and point that all Vulcans have. The man’s skin is a similar tone as Spock’s, perhaps a little more peach, and his messy hair is an exotic yellow-brown. The clothes he’s wearing are strange but not absurd. And then Spock notices the _blood_ —the dark smears around a rip about his chest and the smaller, purpling bruise above his temple. The being is hurt and clearly unconscious. Perhaps he’s in a healing trance, and Spock should leave him be. 

Except there’s a splattering along the complicated panels of the ship. At first, Spock can’t place what it is, because he’s never seen anything like it, but then he connects it with the dark patch along the alien’s chest. One of the knobs on the panel even has a yellow string caught in it. The whole surface is dreadfully uneven—hardly crash-friendly. The being must’ve been jerked forward and bashed into the harsh edge of the panel, knocking his head along the way. Then the crashing ship propelled him back into his chair. There’s a strip around his waist that might be securing him to it. For a long moment, Spock simply stares at the mess he’s found. The injury unsettles him, but at least the being’s breathing.

And Spock needs to help. It’s the only logical thing to do. Even if the alien’s in a healing trance, healing trances are more effective lying down in a protected area, and there’s no guaranteeing here that a roaming pack of le-matya won’t make their way inside. Spock doesn’t know well enough how to lock the doors.

And there is, of course, the other possibility: that this species has no method of self-regeneration, and this lone alien, so beautiful and ethereal in the light of the desert stars, is doing nothing more than dying.

Spock simply can’t allow that. He has no resources—no one he can call to treat an alien, little medical knowledge himself, and no experience or protocol. 

But he has one option. He feels along the being’s waist until he finds the unlocking mechanism, and when he’s clicked a large square button, the belt instantly recedes. The man slumps in place, but Spock steps in, scooping him up in both arms. The alien weighs roughly the same as a young Vulcan man. 

With the man cradled safely against his chest, Spock carries him home.


	2. Synergy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you want a better idea of Spock’s house, I’m loosely basing it on Kendrick Kellogg’s Desert House.

Out of respect for the alien’s privacy, Spock doesn’t go through the fallen ship’s computer. While a terminal doesn’t appear immediately accessible, Spock’s confidence that there must be some form of interactable control unit, and that given time, he could find and learn to understand it. But it seems likely that the alien will regain consciousness before then, and thus it would be more prudent to simply _ask_ for information. The sole exception would be for medical files, but he deems it unlikely that he would be able to uncover and decipher them in time to be of any use. 

He did a peripheral search for weapons and found none, so he believes the being came in peace, or at least, it’s an acceptable risk to assume so. Despite the theoretical cautions of the Vulcan government, Spock imagines that any being capable of piercing the speed light barrier and successfully traveling such an enormous distance would have to have evolved past such primitive and unproductive tendencies as violence. When he looks at the young man sleeping soundly in his spare bedroom, it’s hard to believe anything else. 

He spends more time than he would like just _looking_. Perched in a chair pulled up beside the bed, Spock observes the gentle ebb and flow of the creature’s breath. The blood has been gently scrubbed away, and the chest wound has been cleaned and tended, now wrapped in simple bandages. Spock opted for older medical techniques, because as sophisticated as medical sciences have become, they presume that the patient has copper-based blood, and Spock’s scans have revealed that the alien is iron-based. There are a number of other internal differences—rearranged organs, and a heart beating on the upper left rather than the side—but for the most part, disinfectant and bandages seem to be working. The slight bruise on the man’s temple appears shallow enough that only a topical cream now covers it. Spock had to carefully massage in that cream along the man’s golden hairline. He regrets that he can’t do anymore, but his knowledge is understandably limited. Perhaps a medical professional would have a better chance, but that would require putting the helpless alien on official records. Given the government’s reluctance to acknowledge such a possibility in the first place, Spock finds himself reluctant to make such a hasty move.

So he handles it himself. The spare bedroom is small but serves its purpose well enough: it boasts a sizeable bed, a handy side-table, and several more empty shelving units along the sloping walls. The colours are soothing browns and a calming beige, the carpet purposely comfortable. The interlaced panels of the roof let in enough light to see by, but as the sun sets, it dims to a more restful stage. It requires no cleaning: Spock keeps his house immaculate.

Spock tucks the alien beneath a number of thick, matching blankets until the alien’s skin feels warm enough. Spock brings a glass of purified water to the bedside table should the alien wake. Spock repeatedly checks the alien’s pulse, runs scans, and monitors all vital signs. He even sets up his home’s computer to alert him if any of those readings drastically plummet.

But mostly he just sits there, unable to leave.

* * *

It isn’t until several meals have been missed that Spock finally forces himself to exit the bedroom. He doesn’t go far—just into the kitchen, and he keeps the spare room’s door open, his ears ready should the being stir. He only synthesizes a bowl of plomeek soup—something quiet and easy. He sips away at it from the head of his too-large table, eyeing the five conspicuously empty chairs. Perhaps sometime in the near future, the alien will occupy one. Then the other four won’t be so glaringly obvious, and his attention to interior design will prove well balanced after all.

He’s halfway through his soup when he hears a low groan from the other room. Instantly, Spock is on his feet, hurrying faster than he’d like to admit. He appears in the open doorway, and sure enough, the alien’s awake.

Hazy, half-lidded eyes glide to him. Spock’s instantly rooted to the floor by them. The alien’s eyes aren’t all that different from a Vulcan’s, except instead of the customary brown-black irises, the alien has a magnificent, brilliant blue contrasting his deep ebony pupils. That feature alone is enough to give the man a beautiful, exotic finish that makes Spock feel privileged to see. When he looks at Spock, his coral lips slowly draw up into a smile.

It makes no sense to assume that such a gesture is universal. But Spock could swear that it means exactly what he thinks it does: the alien is well. Spock has to physically will himself out of his captive hold. 

Spock moves back to his chair, slow and steady, but the alien doesn’t startle. Though it’s even more unlikely that the alien will understand him now than it was at the ship, Spock offers the Vulcan salute and a quiet, “Welcome.”

The alien’s glorious eyes flicker to Spock’s hand. He lifts one of his own and tries to mirror the gesture, but his fingers won’t seem to hold in the position—he can only part the middle two so far, and when he presses his index and middle finger together, the last two can’t make it. Finally, the alien shakes his shoulders and drops his hand. Spock wonders if the head wound was more damaging than he thought, and it resulted in poorer motor skills. 

Then the alien speaks, in a language more stilted and rough than Spock is used to, and the words make no sense to him. He waits politely for the speech to finish anyway, then answers just as uselessly, “I do not understand.” The alien looks just as confused.

He makes a gesture with his hand, as though holding something small, but that doesn’t help. Then the alien sighs, pats his chest, and barks a single syllable.

Spock lifts one brow. The alien does it again, repeating the noise: “ _Jim_ ,” and gesturing at Spock.

The obvious conclusion is that the alien is establishing designations. He could be indicating the name of his species, or perhaps his personal title. The latter seems more likely, given that, for all the alien knows, there may be several Vulcans about, but only one Spock. So Spock replies, “Spock.”

“Spock,” the alien repeats, thickly accented but correct. For whatever reason, it raises the temperature in Spock’s cheeks.

Spock returns, “Jim.”

The alien smiles again, and Spock becomes irrationally sure that that indicates some form of happiness. Overall, the alien— _Jim?_ —seems quite jovial, given that he’s awoken in a strange place without any means to communicate. He tries to make another gesture with his hands, but it’s as inefficient as it was the first time. Then he spots the glass of water.

Spock lifts it off the counter and offers it forward. When Jim reaches out to take it, their fingers briefly brush, only for a mere fraction of a second, but it’s enough to make proverbial sparks. Spock’s touch-telepathy has never been particularly advanced, but the contact flashes and lingers in his mind as a warm, welcoming glow. Jim sits up enough to slowly sip the water, and to Spock’s relief, he shows no adverse effects. 

There is an effect on _Spock_ when Jim finishes and sticks out his pink tongue, running it around his lips to catch any drops left over. It pushes Spock out of his chair, and when Jim looks up at him, he promises, “I will return shortly.” Jim just tilts his head to the side.

It should have occurred to him earlier—a PADD and stylus would prove helpful in this situation. Spock fetches the nearest one from the living room, where an empty unit permanently sits should Spock hear an interesting documentary or lecture broadcast and need to make notes. As he walks, he reconfigures it to suit basic drawing. He’s back in the spare room in record time, Jim right where Spock left him. 

Resuming his seat, Spock lifts the PADD and demonstrates the simple drawing of a circle. Flipping the stylus over allows him to erase the image. Then he hands them both to Jim, who adapts impressively quickly.

Jim draws a small, detail-less figure of the ship he arrived in, then looks at Spock and says something, his tone reminiscent of a question. Spock holds out his hands, and Jim passes the equipment back over.

As best he can with the dimensions that Jim’s set up, Spock shades in the sand pit around the shuttle, then turns to point at the wall in the correct direction. Jim glances that way and tilts his head forward. Spock assumes that to mean confirmation, though it’s a large assumption. There’s no reason to believe that Jim’s species have also evolved the bowing of one’s head from the more primitive form of bowing forward—a show of surrender, then respect, and thus affirmation. 

Spock then proceeds to draw the figure of his house and the ripple of the Voroth Sea along the side. There’s no way to properly indicate scale without a common unit of measurement, but Jim should understand that. Because Jim already looks satisfied with the ‘map’, Spock then saves the image and swipes to a blank screen, where he begins sketching out a diagram of his house. He draws Jim’s bed in the room they currently occupy, pointing to it, then draws and points to his own bedroom, should Jim need to find him at any point. Jim nods his head again. 

But when Spock tries to return the PADD, Jim shakes his head and leans down, slinking back into the bed. Perhaps they’ve already pushed his consciousness too far, expended too much energy, and Jim must still have time left in his healing trance. Still, Spock wants to make the most of Jim’s consciousness, and he points to his mouth, opening it, to indicate food.

Jim smiles and nods. Spock can’t help but note that despite the obvious barrier, they’re doing remarkably well.

Jim looks perfectly calm when Spock leaves the room, retiring to the kitchen. He leaves the door open again, but as soon as he’s out of sight, he takes a moment just to breathe. It’s late into the evening, the sun low over the distant mountains, but Spock feels as hot as midday. Meeting Jim has been... _exhilarating._

It’s more excitement than is proper for a Vulcan. Spock does his best to bring his swirling mind back down, to maintain his treasured air of neutrality. Only then does he synthesize a second bowl of plomeek soup. 

He carries the steaming bowl and spoon into Jim’s room. There’s no telling if the food is acceptable to Jim’s biology, but plomeek soup has few ingredients, and all have proven passive to every species on Vulcan. Thus far, Jim seems to be able to breathe the same atmosphere, to drink the same water—it stands to reason that he should be able to intake the same simple foods. 

He helps to sit Jim up for it, and then he remains by Jim’s side, just in case.

* * *

It takes some time for Jim to finish the soup, which is understandable—by this point, he’s been unconscious for nearly a full day, and so must start slowly. They’re quiet through it, though Spock has many questions he’d ask if he could, and he’s sure Jim must be in the same position. Spock tries to focus the time on devising a plan for the future, but by the end of Jim’s dinner, he hasn’t made any decisions. The _proper_ thing to do would probably be to reach out to the appropriate branches of government, but he can’t bring himself to do that. His father, mildly involved in politics when not immersed in his teaching career, might know exactly what to do. But Spock just can’t imagine that call going well.

Jim can, at least, stay with him. Spock’s home is equipped to handle more than one, and at the moment, Jim seems to have no exorbitant needs. He does shed two of the blankets that Spock put over him, indicating that he must require lower temperatures, so Spock adjusts the settings in his room. Jim seems pleased with this, so Spock stoically bears his own mild discomfort. He can get used to it. Jim’s needs are paramount, as is Spock’s ability to demonstrate that he can and will care for them. 

He leaves only to refill Jim’s water and set the dishes in the cleaning unit. When he returns, Jim reaches out, but Spock only looks at him quizzically. Jim has to lean forward, sliding his fingertips along the side of Spock’s palm. Spock’s breath catches. Jim brings their hands together, intertwining their fingers, and gives Spock’s a little squeeze. He gives Spock a look of gratitude and radiance. Spock’s face is hot. Jim can’t possibly know how intimate the gesture is. 

Fortunately, the universe takes pity on him. Jim only maintains the grip for a few seconds, then withdraws again. As Spock exhales, Jim opens his mouth, and a quiet, rumbling noise bubbles out of him. His eyes close, lashes fluttering only halfway back up. He starts to shuffle down into the pillows Spock’s provided, and Spock understands. He must be tired. And he probably needs his rest. Spock watches him settle down beneath his single blanket, turned onto his side. He flashes Spock another smile, and Spock, for lack of anything better to do, points again towards his bedroom. He hopes that Jim understands. 

Jim nods as though he does. So Spock excuses himself from the guest room, once again leaving the door wide open. Spock retires to his own room. It’s slightly larger than Jim’s, the walls equally rounded, painted in soothing earth tones and lined with rich wooden shelves sporting all manner of PADDs and chips and various scientific memorabilia. None of that material has prepared him for this day. 

He knows that more is yet to come. It would be wise to rest, to prepare himself, at least physically, for all the unknowns that lie ahead. But for a long while, he only stares out the oval window, over the rolling hills of sand, and wonders if aliens dream.


	3. Time

For two days, Jim’s recovery goes smoothly. If he is capable of a healing trance, he isn’t engaging it, but he seems comfortable enough to get plenty of rest, and Spock does what he can with the injuries. He makes sure Jim always has water, he brings Jim a balanced meal whenever Jim indicates hunger, and he adjusts the temperature according to Jim’s configuration of blankets. Jim can walk a few paces, though not steadily, and Spock has to help him to the washroom next door after meals. Fortunately, Jim seems to manage inside on his own, after Spock’s peripherally pointed things out. He waits outside the door anyway, just in case Jim should call for him. As he’s removing Jim’s bandages on the second evening, it occurs to him that it could be more than the injury. Perhaps Vulcan’s gravity and atmosphere are significantly different from Jim’s home. At least Jim seems to be adjusting. 

On the third day, Jim’s walking better. Spock’s learned a few of his words, or at least, garnered a general sense of what Jim means by them, and he thinks Jim’s understood a few in return. If they stay together long enough, one of them is going to have to learn the other’s language, preferably both. But Spock knows it’s unlikely that these unusual circumstances will linger that long.

As Jim walks around the washroom, he repeats two or three words in abundance, gesturing with his hands, but Spock has no idea what he means. He simply stands in the doorway, watching Jim run his hands along almost every surface, ever lively and tactile. Once he’s made a complete circle of the room, Jim returns to Spock, coming to stand much too close, and looks into his eyes like that will change everything. Jim speaks a few words that Spock barely hears. When they look at one another long enough, Spock could almost imagine hearing the whisper of Jim’s mind. 

It’s impossible, of course. They’ve never melded. And they can’t anytime soon—that would require asking permission, and Spock has no way to explain it. He could, perhaps, simply splay his fingertips across Jim’s handsome face, lock his gaze with Jim and wait, hoping that Jim will mirror the movement and do the same. But the way Jim so liberally touches _everything_ indicates to Spock that his species doesn’t have touch telepathy. Or if it does, they’re not very conservative with it. Spock’s not ready to initiate something so _intimate_ with a being so mercurial, at least to Spock, as Jim. 

Finally, Jim sighs. He brushes past Spock, and Spock can _feel_ the touch through both their clothes. He follows Jim back into the spare bedroom, where Jim plucks his half empty glass off the dresser. He lifts it up, reciting a single word that Spock thinks must mean ‘water.’ Then he rolls up one sleeve and splashes a few drops onto it, before gesturing at the rest of his body.

 _Shower_ , Spock thinks, is what Jim’s asking for. Spock nods his understanding, and Jim grins, falling into line as Spock guides him back into the washroom. There’s a stall in the back, but the wall panel by the sink has to be accessed to dispense the nozzle and glass door. Spock slowly and deliberately takes Jim through the process, and Jim watches intently. Spock’s sure he’ll pick it up. Spock’s already concluded that Jim’s a highly intelligent being, and not simply because of his single-handed space travel capabilities.

When warm water—albeit set colder than usual—is streaming down the newly emerged cubicle, Spock turns to leave. The rest can be done without his help, and this requires privacy. But he doesn’t make it more than a step towards the door. Jim’s blocking his way, shirt already off and pants about to join it. 

As Jim casually draws down his fly, eyes absently over Spock’s shoulder on the running water, Spock’s eyes can’t help but run down Jim’s body. He saw Jim shirtless already when he was first applying the ointment and bandages, but that was when Jim was lax with unconsciousness and laboured with injuries. There was no reason to believe that anything was wrong with Jim’s legs, so Spock never saw anything lower. But even Jim’s bare chest alone is a very different sight when he’s vertical, awake and vibrant, his taut muscles glistening in the bright lights overhead. His broad shoulders flex as he bends forward, fingers clasped at his waist and swiftly descending. He sheds his pants and undergarments all at once, giving Spock a quick flash of his toned, creamy thighs before Spock manages to wrench his gaze away.

In Spock’s peripherals, Jim unabashedly straightens and struts past him. Jim trills something in his unfamiliar language, and then Spock hears the door slide back enough to allow him entry. Spock knows the cubicle fits _two_

Spock knows this is all horribly inappropriate. Jim must be from a _very_ liberal species, but Spock isn’t. He won’t let himself turn around and look through the glass and water.

Instead, he bends down to retrieve Jim’s clothes. He carries them out of the washroom, deposits them in the hamper for cleaning, and stiffly returns to his own room. As he mechanically searches through his drawers for clothes that will suit Jim, he tells himself there’s no need to rush back. The computer will alert him if Jim falls or his vitals drop. So Spock takes his time examining a thick v-neck sweater, trying to picture Jim in it. He thinks Jim would look good in it. But then, Jim would likely look good in most of his clothes, and that’s a useless determination that should have no bearing on his choice. The wool, however, might be too hot for Jim’s delicate skin, so Spock retires it in favour of a lighter tunic with gold trim the colour of sand. 

As a fair portion of Spock’s wardrobe is made of robes, he doesn’t have many trousers, and most are simple, nearly identical black coverings. Spock selects the first pair in his drawer. But he stalls over his underwear, because clearly Jim was wearing clothing of a similar function, but is that something that should be shared? Among Vulcans, never. But Jim appears to have no choice. Continuing in his existing pair would surely be unsanitary. Perhaps there’s more in Jim’s shuttle, but on Jim’s first day up and moving, it probably isn’t the time to make a sizeable journey through the desert.

Ultimately, Spock adds a grey pair of his own briefs to the pile. Then he returns to the washroom, waiting just outside the open door, refusing to glance inside. He can still hear the water running. He attempts to clear his mind and meditate while he waits for it to stop, but the doesn’t go well.

Spock’s cheeks are likely an embarrassing shade of green by the time the water stops, replaced with the rush of air indicating Jim’s drying off. Jim must’ve remembered Spock’s demonstration and thus turned off the shower himself. Spock remains where he is, trying to school his features as neutral as possible despite his naked houseguest. 

Then Jim calls from just inside the door, “Spock?” Spock holds out the bundle of cloth, eyes firmly fixed forward. Jim lets out the sort of bubbling laughter that Spock hasn’t heard since childhood. Even then, it was discouraged. Evidently, Jim grew up differently. Jim says something that’s probably ‘thank you’ as he takes the offered clothes. Spock remains stock still through the shuffling and rustling sounds.

A few minutes later, Jim steps out next to him, clean and practically shining, crisply dressed in Spock’s own clothes. He looks just as stunning as Spock knew he would. They’re roughly the same size, so the clothes fit him well enough, though the neckline and shoulder seams don’t suit him quite as well as his original clothes did. Spock still prefers his own.

For a moment, they just look at one another, and then Jim takes a step out towards the dining room. Spock shifts into the lead and decides their next course of action. It was one thing to draw Jim a map, but now that Jim’s mobile, he should have a proper tour. Announcing each room won’t technically help, but Spock does so anyway, figuring that the more they become familiar with one another’s languages, the easier it will be to understand each other eventually. 

In the dining room, there isn’t much to say, but Spock points out the shelving units, light fixtures, and potter plants. In the attached kitchen, he walks Jim through using the Synthesizer, and tells Jim, “You may use this at any time.” Jim thumbs thoughtfully through the well-organized chips in Spock’s drawer and makes a few comments. Though Spock does have appliances for natural cooking, he doesn’t show them to Jim, as it would probably be dangerous to have an alien operating machinery like the oven.

He does go through the cabinets, the recycling and washing units, the refrigeration unit and the raw tea collection. He even makes Jim a cup of Elimomahc tea, but Jim wrinkles his nose after the first sip and apologetically shakes his head, dumping it out down the sink. Spock fetches him water instead and forcibly doesn’t take offense.

The house isn’t particularly large, and a few of the rooms won’t mean anything to Jim: everything in the study is currently indecipherable to him, and he doesn’t seem to have a clue what to do in the spa when Spock tries to indicated meditation. He does smile and walk ahead when Spock shows his own bedroom. There isn’t much of note in it, yet Jim takes his time looking at every little thing. It’s just off the main living area, where Spock tries to explain the television terminal, but mostly Jim just lounges on the couch. For that, his posture is atrocious. But he looks impressed and pleased with everything, and it leaves Spock unwilling to correct his lackluster habit. Instead, Spock heads for the patio, and Jim rises to follow him. 

When he catches up, Jim slips his hand into Spock’s. It gives off the same spark that it has before, but Spock doesn’t pull away. He wonders if Jim can feel it. _Spock_ probably shouldn’t feel it. Clearly, they’re two _very_ different species. But their touch, their cores and their minds, all seem compatible. He thinks he can feel the genuine affection when Jim squeezes his hand. 

But it withdraws too swiftly when Jim points across the patio, out into the garden. A small Voroth vole is digging at one of his shrubs. Spock steps out into the sun, and Jim follows in his wake.

* * *

It takes some time to catch the intruder. Jim tries to help, the two of them scurrying back and forth as it darts beneath one set of leaves after another. Though Spock moves faster, Jim’s more erratic and constant in his movements, and eventually he winds up half doubled over, clearly trying to regain his breath, his chest beating hard and sweat beaded along his brow. It can’t be good for him so early in his recovery. So Spock guides him back to the porch and urges him to sit down. He tries to rise again, but Spock, having no other way to communicate his concern, lightly pushes Jim back. Jim chuckles but obeys, staying put as Spock resumes the chase. 

Without Jim’s noisier footsteps giving him away, Spock adopts a more methodical approach. He knows that he should be able to catch the vole himself, but he still regrets not having I-Chaya to guard his grounds for him—I-Chaya would never have allowed this. But his childhood pet was his father’s first, and it would be cruel to make the old sehlat part with his first master. So Spock must be his own patrol. When he does finally catch the vole, Jim makes a loud noise that Spock assumes to be praise. 

The vole squeals in irritation as he carries it beyond the borders of his garden, but he ignores its vehement protests. Once he’s set it down on the other side of the sandstone fence, it wisely bolts in the other direction. Jim begins to clap his hands together, creating a strange cacophony of sounds. Startled by it, Spock looks back at him, and he smiles. 

In the interest of protecting the garden—much of which is edible and useful beyond pure aesthetics, Spock takes the time to pace its edges. Jim remains where he is, lounging back on the stone deck and watching Spock work. Near the southern edge, Spock finds a small hole beneath the fence that the vole must’ve dug through.

The gardening tools are kept in an outdoor closet along the deck. When Spock returns for it, thus nearing Jim again, he realizes just how much the exercise and sun have gotten to Jim. His breathing is still heavy, and his skin’s still glistening, his tunic practically glued to his chest. Despite the earlier shower, his smell is strong, half objectionable and half strangely alluring, in a feral, base sort of way. Overall, Jim looks even more _vivid_ than usual. It makes Spock wonder what his people would think of aliens if they could share this view. 

Trying to ignore it himself, Spock returns to redistribute the soil around the hole. Halfway through, Jim comes to sit beside him. Jim makes a few idle comments, and Spock works quicker for it to save him from the sun.

* * *

After a full day of one another’s constant company, they share dinner at the dining table. Spock prepares them a fresh salad from his own garden—the greens and vegetables thoroughly washed and parted from any vole-bitten leaves. Jim brings his PADD and draws a few things on it: a circle with a squiggly border inside and an array of smaller circles, a plate of what looks like long hairs, and an oddly textured crescent moon. Spock assumes they must be kinds of food, ones that Jim misses, but nothing like anything Spock’s ever seen. It enforces that sooner, rather than later, they better learn as many foreign words as possible.

As Spock works his way through his own salad, he points to the different images. Jim stops asking questions and answers in lone words, which Spock takes to be names—“peetsa”, “pasta,” and “crusont”. Jim corrects him on each one, beaming when he gets it right. Spock returns the favour, just without the exuberance. Jim struggles with the pronunciation of the vegetables, but his effort is appreciated. Such an approach to language, without any outside help, will take considerable time.

Spock is willing to invest that. It’s no surprise to find himself so interested in learning about an alien species—the curiosity for other _life_ was what motivated his career choice in the first place. What does cause him concern is the nagging suspicion that it’s more an interest in learning about _Jim_ specifically. Maybe all of Jim’s people are like him, but Spock can’t fathom a race of beings that all possess such wild magnetism. 

When supper’s finished and the sun’s fallen, they retire to their separate rooms. Before they go, Jim places his hand on Spock’s shoulder. He gives Spock a winning smile that communicates so much. Spock doesn’t know what to do in return, so he does nothing. It occurs to him suddenly that Jim must think _him_ quite dull by comparison. He doesn’t exude all of the brimming emotions that Jim does—doesn’t laugh and grin and chatter away so easily. Perhaps Jim understands his stoicism, his dedication to pure logic, or perhaps Jim’s people are as Vulcans were before Surak’s teachings, and Spock simply seems dreadfully empty of both dichotomies—reason and passion. Then Jim’s hand falls away, dropping down Spock’s arm and brushing past his fingers, and that raw _skin-on-skin_ tells Spock all he needs to know: Jim is content here.

Jim disappears into his bedroom. But Spock spends the first half of the night in deep meditation: a growing necessity.


	4. Song

Before anything else, Spock becomes aware of an unusually weight at the side of his bed, drawing down the mattress by his right arm. His head rolls towards it, and his eyes flutter open. Silhouetted in the brilliant morning sun, Jim murmurs, “Good morning, beautiful.”

Spock’s eyes widen. The voice is familiar—the same deep, jubilant purr that’s lived with him for days, that’s haunted him from room to room and lingered in his dreams. But the words are in Vulcan, and ones that Spock hasn’t taught him. Spock would never have thought to include the word ‘ _beautiful_ ’ in a beginner’s vocabulary.

A brilliant smile lights Jim’s face, and his eyes seem to revel in that surprise. Spock watches his lips part and move as he explains, “I found my way to the ship and got my communicator—it has a universal translator built in.” He nods towards the nightstand, where a small, gold and black device is open. Its sleek edges and utilitarian finish show no screens or similar readouts, but it seems to be doing its job—Spock understands every word. But his mind barely touches on the implications of a _universal translator._ Instead, his gaze returns swiftly to Jim.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Jim adds, and though the language is crisp and clear, the syntax is slightly jumbled, pushed together more colloquially than what’s standard for an adult. “I borrowed your cruiser and went looking. The pictograph map helped; thanks.”

A dozen questions boil up in Spock. The casual language doesn’t fool him; the fact that Jim was able to work the PADD back to the map, to remember the direction Spock pointed out days ago, and to work a cruiser without any training—and apparently without incident—all speak of Jim’s intelligence. The question that comes out first is: “How did you know how to drive it?”

Jim laughs. It’s unaffected by the translator: as pure and riveting as it’s been all along. “I can drive anything,” he boasts, before amending, “maybe not well, but hey, I’ve never shied away from a calculated risk.” It seems an enormous risk to Spock, to operate anything motorized without an appropriate understanding. Yet Jim’s admission doesn’t shock him. Jim’s smile continues on for a bit, while Spock stares back and ponders half-formed questions, both lost and too distracted to ask for directions. Over the course of that strangely comfortable silence, Jim’s expression slowly sobers. When the playfulness has gone, replaced with quiet sincerity, Jim tells him, “Thank you, Spock. For taking care of me all this time.”

It hasn’t been that long. It hasn’t been long _enough_. All Spock manages is: “It was the logical thing to do.”

Just like that, the grin is back. “Logical, huh?” Jim settles back, exhaling audibly. “You know, I got the impression your people were a little uptight...” He pauses then, adding thoughtfully, “But I think I’m already starting to melt through you.”

Spock doesn’t know what that means. He thinks he has an idea, though the word choice is odd, but that idea isn’t helpful and he tries to bury it. He asks instead, “How much do you know of my people?”

Jim lifts his shoulders and drops them. “Not much. Just a few non-invasive scans here and there—enough to put together a basis for the translator to work. But from what I’ve seen, I don’t think we’re all that different.”

They’re very different. It’s evident in everything from the pink tint the Vulcan heat gives to Jim’s skin to the way Jim’s expression lights up his whole body. But Spock doesn’t argue the point.

Jim taps Spock’s shoulder, just enough for a little spark of _contact_. Then he suggests, “How about you get up and dressed, and I’ll make breakfast this time.”

Spock, still spellbound, acquiesces: “Very well.”

So Jim grins, grabs his communicator, and goes. The bed feels lighter without him. He shuts the door too loudly. Spock can already hear him humming through it.

Spock remains in bed for a few minutes, just evening out his breathing.

* * *

Despite his best efforts to control his mind, Spock thinks of Jim in the shower. He stands in place, arms slightly away from his body, sets the soap and water levels accordingly, and lets it do its job. His hands have nothing to do but occasionally splash sudsy water across his face, and that frees him up to replay the morning in his head.

Jim called him _beautiful_. Jim obtained a way for them to properly communicate, and the first thing he did with that power was to tell Spock that. The first thing they truly said to one another was _good morning, beautiful._

Spock tells himself that Jim’s species are prone to superfluous adjectives, and clearly Jim just _says things_ whether or not they’re true. This proves incongruous with the amount of thought he put into obtaining his ‘communicator’, but nothing else makes sense. Despite all the small physical similarities, Jim’s very _alien_ to him.

Yet that first statement, as inexplicable as it was, warms Spock to the point that he has to readjust the shower’s temperature controls. If not by typical Vulcan standards, _Jim_ is beautiful, in a new, exotic, but undeniable way. But that would never have been the first thing out of Spock’s mouth. It leaves him wondering if he’s meant to return the compliment aloud. But if Jim understands anything of Vulcans, surely he understands that’s not their way.

Spock spends longer in the shower than he should, and as he emerges to change into new clothes, he’s reminded that Jim’s still wearing his from yesterday. Evidently, Jim didn’t have many backups at his ship. That, or for whatever reason, he’s _chosen_ to remain in Spock’s. Spock doesn’t want to ponder the implications of that, so instead, he repeats an ancient Vulcan prayer in his head as he combs his hair into place and brushes his teeth. It was once thought to encourage rain. Such superstitions have long since been disproved, but the meditative benefit of such contemplative rituals is still valued. Unfortunately, that line of thought only takes him to wondering if Jim’s ship is capable of mass weather control, as some Vulcan scientists have long theorized. 

By the time Spock emerges from the washroom, he’s no better off than he was when Jim first left his bedroom. He heads straight for Jim anyway. The synthesized bowl of fruit salad on the dining room table doesn’t give off the telling scent that natural fruit would, but Jim’s erratic humming gives his position away. When he sees Spock coming, he brings two forks and two smaller bowls from the drawer, passing them to Spock as he sits down. It’s not the way Spock would set a table, but it’ll do.

Jim joins him, sliding smoothly into the chair across from him, and immediately suggests, “We should transfer the translator program into your home computer at some point, if you have one. The technology’s built to be intuitive and adaptable.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow, admitting, “Most impressive. Perhaps after breakfast.” Jim nods, clearly agreeing. His communicator is already sitting on the table, but Spock can see how having that wired to the home’s overall computer network would be advantageous. Not to mention having one in every home on Vulcan.

That would, of course, require exposing _Jim_ to all of Vulcan.

And that opens up a world of new possibilities and possible tribulations that Spock pushes aside. It wouldn’t be his decision anyway, not now that Jim can communicate his own wishes. They could technically start the conversation right away. They could say _anything._ They have a start now, but it doesn’t feel like they’re brand new—it feels like they’ve already settled into one another, already learned one another’s company despite the language barrier of the past few days. 

In perfectly normal fashion, Spock says, “Thank you for breakfast,” and skewers a pitted iwik fruit on his fork.

“Thanks for every other meal,” Jim counters. He begins scooping a wide variety out of the center bowl into his own, and as he goes, he says, “So, tell me about yourself.”

Spock glances up. “Please clarify.”

“Clarify what? I want to hear about you.”

Spock doesn’t consider himself the interesting one, but he has to remember that things must be very different from Jim’s perspective. He still asks, “What specifically about me would you like to hear?”

Jim looks up from his dish. His blue eyes are captivating. He tells Spock, “Everything.”

“‘Everything’ will take a good deal of time.”

“I’ve got time. It’ll take a few days to repair my ship anyway. Most of the damage from the landing is superficial, from what I saw this morning. The reason for the crash was more navigational issues. It’s not easy flying a ship, even one that’s more of a shuttlecraft, all by yourself in a new star system, you know?”

Spock doesn’t know, but he presses, intrigued, “Why were you by yourself?”

A grin tugs at Jim’s mouth, but he buries it in a few bites of iced canteloberry. He stirs his bowl carefully, clearly thinking, before he explains, “My views on prematurely talking to aliens isn’t exactly in line with the rest of my people’s. Humans, by the way. ...But hey, I wanted to meet some aliens, and here I am.” He looks at Spock like this is a victory—like everything: the crash, the injuries, being stranded on a strange world, has all been _worth it._

Swallowing, Spock corrects to the singular: “Alien....And I live a significant distance from the majority of Vulcan’s population.”

Jim doesn’t hesitate. “You’re more than enough.”

It’s Spock’s turn to glance down. To his horror, the reflection in the polished surface of his table reflects a hint of green across his cheeks. Jim rolls on: “By the way... is it okay if I stay a few more days?”

Spock doesn’t hesitate either. “Yes.” But he keeps his voice appropriately devoid of enthusiasm, even when he lifts his gaze to meet Jim’s waiting pleasure. He can read it all over Jim’s face. He continues, “I will tell you all you wish to know... if you will also enlighten me on ‘humans.’”

Jim promises, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

Time is a constant, but when evening does fall, it feels like it’s come too soon. They’ve spent the better part of the day doing very little—Spock attends to normal household chores, Jim follows him about, and the two of them discuss anything and everything without even scratching the surface. Spock’s learned more about the IDIC principle in a few hours than he has in his whole life, but the mere concept of humans still seems so difficult to grasp. Jim asks just as many questions, tries to fit together just as many puzzles, and they find common ground to make one another understand what they can. It’s in the living area, looking out over the garden, that T’Rukh first starts taking over the darkness the day’s left behind, and Jim tells him, eyes filled with the coming stars, “Your moon’s much brighter than ours.”

“Vulcan has no moons,” Spock explains, though perhaps it serves a similar purpose as another world’s natural satellite: casting its visitors in a warm, enticing glow. “What you see is our sister planet. I can show you scans of its orbit, if you wish.”

Jim shakes his head, noting, “No, my ship should have decent star charts of the system. ...It’s just easy to forget, when you’re standing planetside, that you’re not looking at your own stars.”

Spock can’t imagine what it must be like to see a truly _new_ configuration of stars with only the naked idea. The idea ignites a subtle longing in him, but he’s known for many years that his true passions lay in the skies. For some time, he and Jim are quiet, just watching the slow change of night come over Vulcan. 

It’s when the temperature cools enough, the home computer eventually kicking in to compensate, that Spock things to say, “Perhaps now would be a suitable time to resume work on your ship, while the temperature is more bearable for your species.”

Jim doesn’t answer right away. Spock’s grateful for it—he’s not too keening on having mentioned it himself, but there would be no rational reason to withhold such an observation. Finally, Jim answers, “No. I want to spend our first night talking together.”

Humans, Spock’s discovered, are not rational. They’re the sort of wild, crazed beings that Surak would have treated as children. Spock has no cravings for such insanity. He values his sensibility. But somehow, it works on Jim.

Jim turns to him to ask, “Do you have any movies?”

The word is another foreign one. When Spock doesn’t show any comprehension, Jim tries to explain, “Films. You know, like... stories with pictures and sounds.”

“You mean documentaries?” Spock tries, to which Jim laughs. 

“I was thinking a little less dry; I’ve had enough learning for one day. The kinds of movies I’m talking about are fictional narratives.”

Though it’s possible Spock’s misunderstanding, he answers, “We have no such things.”

“That’s a shame,” Jim replies, but he doesn’t look too saddened. He turns around anyway, heading for the couch across from the viewscreen Spock would watch such documentaries and other scholarly pieces on. Spock follows, right down onto the plush seats, where Jim tells him, “I guess we’ll just have to sit here and enjoy one another’s company.” 

Though ‘enjoyment’ should be no motivation, that’s exactly what they’ve been doing all day. Spock purposely chooses the cushion farthest from Jim, leaving one between them, but Jim shifts right onto that middle one, leaving no distance. Spock has room to shrink back into the armrest, but he doesn’t. He allows Jim to come close enough that they’re _almost_ touching. Jim’s long legs part slightly, knee just shy of brushing Spock’s thigh. Jim’s hands are perilously close. Jim’s scent has intensified since yesterday—even with Spock readjusting the computer to his tastes, he’s sweat again. Spock chose a wooly sweater to make up for the loss of heat. He has yet to feel cold. 

Jim leans a little closer, letting his pinky nudge Spock’s, their hands both splayed between them. Spock thinks of moving his but can’t seem to manage. Their conversation has flowed so easily all day, melding from one subject into another, constantly evolving, yet now they’ve fallen into a silence that Spock doesn’t know how to come out of. The computer’s dimmed the lights a fraction to fit in with the late hour, and maybe that isn’t helping. 

Jim’s the first to break the silence, leaning in to quietly tell Spock, “I’m glad that we can talk now.”

Spock agrees, mouth dry, “As am I.” Jim’s hand climbs a centimeter higher over his, and even though so little is actually touching, Spock can feel Jim’s sincerity right through his skin.

He can feel it still when Jim murmurs, “Now I can tell you how much I’m... _drawn to you._ ” He pauses, like it’s something he can’t explain, and Spock understands that. He’s only known Jim a few days, and he’s never spent as much consecutive time in anyone’s exclusive company—never _wanted_ to.

He finds himself answering, “I am an alien to you...” Because surely that should _mean_ something. 

Jim ignores it completely. Somehow, he’s gotten closer, and his thick lashes are low over his eyes, his gaze on Spock’s lips. Their faces are so close that Spock could almost try to meld them without using his hands. With how strong their contact always feels, that might even succeed. He feels like he’s one step away from just plunging down into Jim’s mind and soul, becoming an integral part of Jim’s whole being. Jim whispers, “Do you think I’m attractive?”

Spock admits, “Yes.”

Just like that, Jim’s moving again, and Spock tracks it but doesn’t stop it—he lets Jim come right into him, tilt and press against his mouth, their lips meeting in the sort of sinful, forbidden kiss that even bonded Vulcans rarely share. It’s his first, though he’s had short trysts before—he’s had his fingers intertwined with others, but the way Jim’s hand curls over his is entirely different. Jim doesn’t use two slender fingers but engulfs him wholly, while the heat of their breath is trapped between them. Jim’s mouth is softer, wetter than he’d expected, and the sensation is electric. The dual feelings between his mouth and his hand are overwhelming. Just as Spock’s eyes close, Jim pulls away.

Spock’s left in a state of shock. He slowly opens his eyes again, just to find Jim’s burning into him. Jim murmurs, “I’m sorry... even _I’m_ not usually that fast, but...” He trails off, shakes his head, and squeezes Spock’s hand again—a shiver runs straight up Spock’s spine. He nearly gasps. Jim sucks in a shaking breath like he can feel it just as badly. “When we touch... Spock, it’s _amazing_.”

Spock nods and licks his lips, trying to buy time. He can still taste Jim on them. He has to make his pulse slow down. Jim waits patiently, giving him time to breathe, but doesn’t withdraw his hand, his touch, his presence. He’s a benevolent sun that Spock can’t break orbit from.

Eventually, Spock manages an unsteady, “Vulcans are... touch telepaths. To read minds completely is another matter, one with ceremony, but to simply _touch_ one another, there is some sense of... cognitive intimacy.” He doesn’t know how to explain it any better. Words seem inadequate. 

But Jim seems to understand. He breathes, newly aware, “And I keep touching you...”

“...Yes...” But Spock didn’t stop it. He should’ve. His father would be _ashamed_ of him. 

Jim squeezes Spock’s hand. It’s so fierce, so virile that Spock gasps aloud. Jim brings his other hand up to cup Spock’s face, even though Spock knows by now that humans have no version of the mind meld. Jim turns Spock to him, holding him there as though he could ever break away. Jim’s thumb lightly strokes Spock’s cheek as he asks, “Is it always this strong?”

“Never,” Spock mutters reverently, even though that isn’t true, and he has to correct himself. “Only between two extremely... _compatible_... individuals.” He can’t explain the concept of a _t’hy’la_ to an outsider. Not yet. Even though Jim’s stripping away all his other defenses. 

Jim smiles like he knows. It isn’t the slick, charming thing he wore all day, but a deep, personal look that feels special: made just for _Spock_. When Jim leans in again, Spock meets him. 

Jim kisses him. Jim licks his lips. Jim caresses Spock’s face and the slanted tip of his ear, and Spock takes it, even dares to give a little back—only the barest, smallest fraction, but it grows each time, and Jim doesn’t stop him either. Jim kisses his way into Spock’s mouth, pries him right open and laps at his insides, curling and plunging in around the steam of their breath and Spock’s tongue. Before Spock realizes his betrayal, he’s shifted his free hand onto Jim’s leg. He can _feel_ Jim’s smile. It presses into his mouth and reverberates inside his mind. They turn to face one another completely, and Spock brings his fingers together the way Vulcans do. 

He caresses Jim’s palm. He smoothes along Jim’s wrist, listens to Jim’s racing pulse, dips lewdly under Jim’s sleeve and runs along Jim’s forearm. Jim wordlessly understands and mirrors the gesture, honouring Spock with the same adoring touch. It’s like something from a dream.

Spock’s never had any of the desert plants that bring on feverish insanity, but he wonders if this is what it’s like—heady, intoxicating. Or maybe _pon farr_. Jim’s the embodiment of that torrential, inescapable lust, and Spock should run but instead lets himself drown in it.

They _touch_ for much of the night, until Jim’s intensity dies into gentler pecks and wide, sehlat-like yawns. Then they retire to different bedrooms despite Jim’s crude offer and the pounding of Spock’s heart. 

Spock sleeps with the feeling of _Jim_ still swathed all around him.


	5. Orbit

Spock’s not in _pon farr_. He knows that—his mind still works, and he still functions, just with the shadow of _Jim_ laced through everything he does. They spend their days mostly together, and Spock’s once isolated life is nothing like it was.

They both have work to do. Spock has his satellites and systems, and he modifies them accordingly, now that he has Jim to tell him what to search for. Their technology is remarkably different, and yet they learn one another’s devices just as they learn one another. They share questions, suggestions, answers, and several more kisses, sometimes the Vulcan way, sometimes the human way, many times both at once. When Jim invites Spock to his shuttle, Spock goes almost every time. 

There isn’t much that he can really _do_ , beyond providing a few materials that Jim can work into makeshift patches: most of the problem is internal, and explaining the computer systems to Spock would take longer than simply repairing them. So Spock plays with Jim’s communicator as Jim lies along the shuttle’s floor, head stuck beneath the navigation panel, rerouting different wires. Even the communicator seems a marvel, and Spock has to resist the urge to take it all apart and examine how it really works. 

“You already understand more than a few people I know,” Jim tells him, voice slightly echoed in the small chamber. “I swear Hendorff slept with someone to get on the survey mission—guy couldn’t read a star chart if his life depended on it.”

“Given the damage a collision with even minor debris could theoretically cause, would his life not depend on navigational competency?” Spock turns the communicator over and runs his thumb along the back casing—the alloy, he thinks, isn’t one available on Vulcan. “And how would resting near someone else obtain a position they did not deserve?”

“Nobody on Vulcan ever slept their way to the top?”

Though they understand one another surprisingly well in most respects, there are many occasions where Jim still proves an anomaly. Spock reasons, “Climbing to a higher elevation typically requires one to be conscious.” Jim lets out a roar of laughter, which Spock tries to take well. Ultimately, Jim must see the validity of Spock’s points, because he doesn’t counter them, rather switches the subject.

“What I’m trying to say is that you could probably be flying this ship yourself in no time.”

Unlike Jim’s apparent willingness to drive without proper experience, Spock has no desire to commandeer unknown vehicles. But he appreciates the sentiment. And he can find the subtle message in it: that Jim will likely be around long enough for Spock to learn it all, even if that’s long after Jim’s repairs. They don’t talk about that much. 

Still, Spock takes the comment as a summons. Setting the communicator down on the nearest console, Spock shifts out of his chair and onto the deck, where he can get a better view of what Jim’s doing. Jim looks up enough to catch his eye under the shadow of the console. Jim pauses for a minute, flashing Spock a knowing grin, then lies back to continue his work. Spock watches the various connectors and inputs. Aesthetically, the opened panel looks rather messy—Spock’s confidant a team of Vulcan engineers could significantly improve its design efficiency. Yet at the same time, Spock can acknowledge that Terran technology is a touch more... imaginative. And perhaps that quality, intangible and so easily dismissed, is part of what helped their space program to flourish in the first place, whereas Spock’s people can never seem to get past dry conjecture. In a way, he thinks the two cultures could benefit from one another. 

On the other hand, with Jim as a first contact, the Vulcan High Command could just as easily see the way he looks at Spock, the way he touches Spock, and dub the entire thing a dangerous exercise in over-emotionalism. 

“...You ever wanted to fly a ship?” Jim asks, cutting into his thoughts. When Spock takes too long to answer, he amends, “Or command one?

Despite all of Spock’s unusual interest in the subject, he can admit, “The thought never occurred to me as a possibility.”

Jim chuckles, “How about a daydream, then?”

“Vulcan’s do not ‘daydream.’” Or at least, they don’t ideally. Having had Jim explain the human idiom yesterday, he knows that he may have come close to such unproductive thoughts when he was a child, but he’s never stooped that low since his _kahs-wan_. 

Jim tries, a little quieter, “Space in general, then? Having seen some of the works in your room...”

Spock can at least admit, “I am interested in space, yes.” He can see the corner of Jim’s smile. He tries to focus more on Jim’s work than Jim’s face, but without context, the wires mean little, and Jim himself proves more compelling. But Jim’s smile drops when Spock adds, “It is not considered a particularly... acceptable... interest here.”

“’S dumb,” Jim mutters, which is crude but inarguable. So Spock doesn’t argue it. They continue on in silence for a moment, while the sun shifts through the windshield and strains against the shuttle’s air conditioning. 

After a while, Jim mumbles, “I’ll take you out in my spaceship sometime.” But then he pushes out from under the console and straightens out, announcing, “I’m getting hungry—want to get some lunch?” And Spock can’t tell if Jim really _meant_ his first statement or not. Sometimes Jim says facetious things as ‘jokes.’ Spock’s still learning to navigate him.

Spock decides they’ve been on the subject of spacecrafts too long already and agrees, “Yes, let’s go home.”

* * *

Jim returns the favour in the evening. In the fading light, Spock returns to the roof, where his setup is nearly finished but not yet complete. The first dish still needs some adjusting—while it’s proven operational, it should be able to rotate in a wider arc and at more precise angles. When the other two are similarly mounted, the three should be able to move in unison and create a wider net. The third one has yet to be secured in place, the complicated web of beams that go beneath it not yet fully assembled. Spock’s just started when Jim peeks over the rim of the slanted roof, asking, “Need a hand?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim clarifies: “Do you want some help?” Before Spock can even answer, Jim’s climbing up to join him, leaving the security of the ladder for a seat at Spock’s side. He moves a little shakier than Spock, navigating the various boxes and parts with caution, but he shows no fear of slipping off. Perhaps he should—Jim’s told him that his ‘tricorder’ has registered the Vulcan body as stronger overall, more agile and more robust. Tumbling off the sloped roof plates would likely do far more damage to Jim than Spock. Spock finds himself subtly preparing for it—shifting closer to make sure he could reach out and steady Jim if anything should happen. 

In the meantime, he answers, “As with your ship, it would take more time to explain the technology than to simply complete the task myself.” There’s also that the materials themselves are decidedly heavy, and Jim might not be able to lift them, but it seems unnecessary to mention that aloud.

Jim accepts it but still offers, “How about just some company, then?”

“I would find that agreeable.”

Jim smiles, as though there was ever any chance that Spock would send him away. Maybe Spock should. In theory, Jim’s inescapable magnetism should prove an unwelcome distraction, and often does in little, every day things. But with the bigger things, the ones that really matter, Spock finds that they work well together. Jim’s presence is a calm support. The need for encouragement and approval is a childish one, but it’s nonetheless persuasive. Spock moves diligently through his work, and Jim watches, occasionally asking questions. Spock answers to the best of his ability.

As he’s setting the dish into its mount, trying not to show the strain of its weight, Jim asks, “What exactly are you looking for out there?”

“Anything,” Spock answers. “Everything. Alien contact is, naturally, an invaluable outcome, but any scientific data on the galaxy around us is itself a reward.” Spock doubts he’ll receive any readings relating to Jim’s people before they want to be found, but that doesn’t matter. Spock’s more sure than ever that there’s _more_ out there, more even than Jim knows. And a few satellite dishes on one residential home is a very small start, but it’s _something_.

He’d thought that would be enough. But now he can’t help but wonder what taking scans with Jim’s ship would be like, how actually _seeing_ space through its windows would feel. It’s no longer a fantastical ‘daydream’, but, perhaps, a true opportunity. 

And Spock wants to take it. He wants to keep learning, and he knows that Jim would help him with that—would _want_ him to keep striving for higher goals. In a way, he could almost think that Jim brings out the best in him.

When the dish is in place, Spock has to take a moment to sit down. He hasn’t quite started sweating—that comes much harder to him than it does for Jim—but his breathing’s a tad laboured. It was the largest one, but the last one, and he can see the flicker of pride that shines in Jim’s gaze for it. The two of them sit beside one another, surrounded by satellite dishes. The _universe_ has never felt so close.

Jim murmurs, “I’m glad it was you I found.”

And Spock doesn’t answer, but he’s thinking the exact same thing.

* * *

“Do you have any alcohol?” Jim asks, thumbing absently through the cupboards while Spock pours them both water. Spock glances up over the counter, but Jim’s facing away, looking through Spock’s collection of homegrown spices.

“I do not know what that is.”

Jim looks back at him. Spock waits. Jim starts, “You’re serious?” and then, “Uh, okay... it’s like, a drink, but it has a strong taste, usually bitter, and it makes you... well, it lowers inhibitions, basically. It’s just for adults.”

Spock processes ‘lowers inhibitions’ and surmises: “It negatively effects the mind.”

“I suppose. But it also loosens you up and makes ordinary things more... fun.”

Spock still doesn’t understand and notes, “I fail to see the appeal.”

Jim closes the cupboard and decides, “It doesn’t matter.” He comes around to Spock, and Spock hands him a glass. The cool water is a welcome refresher after the evening’s work, but Spock could offer tea—the closest thing he has to a different drink, and he thinks he could make it bitter. It probably wouldn’t be what Jim wants. When Jim’s downed his glass, he tries, “How about dessert?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. Jim grins like he expected that. Sliding the empty glass onto the counter, he steps closer, close enough that Spock tentatively puts his glass down too, just in case. Jim continues, “It’s something nice you have after dinner—something sweet. But if you don’t have anything, I think I have an idea for a treat.”

There are sweet things in Spock’s cupboards—extravagant synthesizer chips and ripe fruit in the garden, but Jim takes another step, and Spock knows what Jim wants. He can feel it even before Jim tilts in to brush their lips together. Spock had thought he might finish the program that controls the satellite dishes tonight. He knows instantly that that won’t be happening. So much for getting work done together.

It’s worth it. It’s nothing like what Spock wanted for his life, what he moved away for, but he knows he’s young and still has time to evolve. He doesn’t have to change much. His kisses are still inexperienced, but Jim doesn’t seem to mind. It doesn’t matter that Spock doesn’t know what he’s doing. His body seems to know what it wants, and surrendering to it feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

Jim shuffles Spock back as they kiss, driving him to the end of the counter, and then Jim’s slipping past him, out into the hall. Spock follows, rewarded with another kiss—Jim leads him with a leash of them, and Spock follows like a newborn sehlat with an adoring master. Jim mumbles as they go, caught between kisses, “Remember when you saw me in the shower, before we could even talk...?”

It wasn’t that long ago, and it’s burned into Spock’s memory. He answers, “Yes,” and receives another kiss. “I made every effort to respect your privacy...”

“I wanted you to look,” Jim laughs. They cross the threshold of the living room—it lights up accordingly, the kitchen turning off behind them. Jim nips at Spock’s bottom lip and coyly adds, “I was hoping you’d join me.” Another kiss, more intense, and Jim’s hands draw along Spock’s hips, digging into the sky-blue fabric of his tunic. Jim all but purrs, “I want to see you too.”

There’s no logic in shame over one’s body, but Spock can’t help a sliver of trepidation. No one other than his parents has seen him naked before. He’s seen Jim, if only at a glance, and knows they aren’t all that different. Yet there are _some_ differences. Jim halts their slew of kisses, waiting patiently, even if the rising flush on his cheeks and the tension in his hands betrays his impatience. Spock appreciates it. He needs the moment to think. 

He thinks it’s bound to happen eventually—he wants to see _more_ of Jim, to see it longer and to _feel him_. It would only be fair for both of them to share that vulnerability. He knows Jim won’t judge him wrongly, but in the end, it’s more a _want of Jim_ than acceptance of himself that makes him nod. 

Jim grins wide. That one look is so full of promise. He bites at Spock again, and Spock returns the hungry kiss, then breaks away to head towards his bedroom. Jim comes along, and this time, there’s no stopping to look at the knickknacks on the walls.

Jim really is the embodiment of _pon farr_ to him. Spock knows what that probably means, what that must make Jim, but he tries to banish the thought. It’s too soon for that. It’s too soon for all of it. But he lets Jim tug him down onto the bed, and he lets Jim’s finger peek beneath his tunic, thumbing along the juts of his hipbones. Now that Jim knows what raw _touching_ does to Vulcans, he only touches Spock _more_.

Spock does the same, less hesitantly than he should. It makes it easier to let Jim scrunch up his shirt and palm along his chest, because he wants the same thing from Jim. He toys with the hem of Jim’s tunic—another v-cut one from Spock’s own drawers—while Jim traces along his abdomen. When Jim’s fingers dig in around Spock’s pectorals, squeezing his chest and kneading him, Spock can’t help a throaty gasp. Jim grinds the heels of his hands hard into Spock’s nipples, and it’s all Spock can do to keep his inhibitions.

They briefly return when Jim parts them, looks into Spock’s eyes, and holds onto Spock’s shirt in a clear question. Spock knows what he wants, and Spock still nods. Jim rips the shirt right over his head—Spock lets it go, heedless of the way it messes up his bangs and leaves him half exposed.

He’s grateful that Jim wordlessly mirrors the gestures, shedding his own shirt without Spock having to ask. It instantly brings Spock’s eyes to Jim’s body, and he finds his hands reaching out of their own accord—he glues onto the lean lines of Jim’s toned stomach. When he presses in, he can _feel_ the resistance of Jim’s muscles, hard beneath soft skin. There’s a bit of blond hair dusted just beneath his navel and some across his chest, lighter and thinner than Spock’s own coarse hairs. Jim’s nipples are pinker and flat, and Spock thumbs at them curiously—sure enough, little nubs harden in the center as Spock rubs them, until they’re as evident as Spock’s, if a different colour. Spock can tell they’re even more sensitive: he experimentally pinches one, and Jim makes a strangled sound and arches into him, breathing, “ _Spock_.”

Sometimes Jim is a nightmare. He can be so _erotic_ , almost painfully so, in every little thing he does, and Spock thinks even without the longing pull of touch telepathy, they’d still wind up inseparable. The _lust_ that rolls off of Jim in pungent waves is just a pleasant side note. Jim ducks down and presses a sloppy kiss beneath Spock’s collarbone, like _Spock’s_ the one that deserves to be worshipped.

There is no complaining. When Jim pushes Spock down, Spock complies, shifting and lying across his mattress in a hazy wave of anticipation. Jim instantly descends over him, kissing further down, licking hot across his skin, and coming to scrape blunt teeth over his nipple. Spock has to force himself not to cry out at the pleasure it jolts through him. Jim latches on to suck at one nub while his fingers glide along Spock’s chest to play with the other. The rest of his body flattens down into Spock’s, so the tent in Spock’s pants is squished against his stomach and his own hardness digs into Spock’s leg. Jim takes his time exploring Spock’s body with his mouth, murmuring as he goes, “ _Fuck_ , you’re so hot... I can’t believe you’re out here all alone. If I had someone like you back home, I would never have left the surface...”

Spock doesn’t think that’s true, but the complement still buzzes through him, and he wholly understands—if he’d ever felt a connection like this before, isolation wouldn’t have been so easy to accept. Now that he’s felt it, he doesn’t know how he’ll ever go back. He doesn’t know how he survived alone. Vulcans are at least semi-social creatures—they still _mate_ , still need contact, and more than the seven years it sometimes seems like. He draws Jim back up for another kiss full of that desperation that Jim meets just as fiercely. 

Rolling onto his side and taking Spock with him, Jim ruts into Spock’s hips. Lined up from head to toe, they’re a perfect fit. Spock tries to retain more control, but it’s impossible with the way that Jim writhes against him, and he finds himself grinding right back into Jim with just as much ferocity. He drowns in one kiss after another and still runs his hands all over Jim’s body, touching everything exposed. Jim goes one step further. He dips one hand between them and starts unfastening Spock’s trousers, which leaves Spock thrusting shamefully up into Jim’s hand. 

It doesn’t give Jim any pause. He manages to get Spock’s pants open, and then his fingers are ducking inside, slipping past his underwear to curl around his cock, and the second Jim’s warm flesh is touching him, Spock shudders and nearly comes from that alone. He’s never been touched there. He rarely even touches it himself. But Jim cups him with complete surety, pumps him once, then pulls him out into the open. It makes his veiled tip poke into Jim’s stomach, and Spock has to stop kissing Jim just to _breathe_.

Jim keeps going. He frees his own cock with expert speed, and he brings his hand back up to spit in, then uses it like lubrication to run down both their cocks. Jim holds them together, fingers stretched wide to accommodate both shafts, both fully hard and burning hot. Spock thinks he might even be leaking. He can’t help himself. Jim chases his mouth and keeps him occupied with kisses. Then Jim starts stroking them both at once, pumping them together, and the combined sensation is so much more than Spock can take. He bucks helplessly into Jim’s grip and arches his whole body into Jim’s. He sucks Jim’s tongue into his mouth, licks around it, fists one hand in Jim’s hair and curls the other around Jim’s waist, holding Jim in as tight as he can stand. He’s never felt anything so brilliant. 

Though Jim said Vulcans have more stamina, Spock knows he won’t last long. It’s too good, too perfect. The extra layer of telepathy makes it infinitely better. Spock can _feel_ that Jim’s perilously close to the same edge, just barely hanging on. They plunge over it only a split-second apart, Jim muffling a cry into Spock’s mouth and Spock coming utterly undone. His entire body tenses, flattens into Jim, and he bursts between their stomachs, painting Jim’s hand even as he keeps pumping them out. Spock thinks Jim might be splashing him too but is too dizzy to really tell. His mind becomes a blank cloud of _pleasure_ , and all he can feel is Jim.

He can feel Jim panting hard against his cheek. He can feel Jim’s overheated body reaching its boiling point and simmering back. He can feel his own heart pounding at his side. He flags in Jim’s grip as Jim slowly stops stroking them. 

Afterwards, Jim slumps, practically collapsing. He manages to catch Spock’s eye, and Spock notes how wide his pupils have blown—how much of his pretty gaze is black instead of blue. He smiles shakily. Spock still wants to kiss him.

For a long moment, they don’t do anything. They exist in a comfortable silence, made more conspicuous after the smacking, wet sounds of their kissing and grinding. The air reeks of their coupling, and there’s a slickness all over Spock’s stomach and thighs. When he looks down between them, he finds that Jim’s come a milky white substance, less than Spock’s clearer mess, but still enough to stain the sheets. Spock will have to wash them. Tomorrow.

For the moment, he slowly pushes up. Jim lazily watches him but doesn’t move. Spock’s mind is still too deep in recovery to form any words, so he leaves in silence.

He cleans himself in the washroom, toweling off with a damp cloth, changing into a loose set of night-pants, and brushing his teeth, then heading back to the kitchen for another glass of water. As he brings a cloth and glass back for Jim, it occurs to him that he’s never walked around his house in such disarray before. He isn’t fully _naked_ , but one pair of loose pants is hardly an adequate outfit. And if he hadn’t had a spare pair in the washroom’s drawers, he probably would be walking back entirely naked.

When he gets back to his own room, he finds the lights already off—evidently, Jim’s already picked up on the language needed to command the house’s computer system. Tucked right under the covers, Jim’s spread out on one side of Spock’s bed. He doesn’t even look up when Spock enters. Spock thinks he might be sleeping. 

He’s sleeping _in Spock’s bed_. They aren’t bonded, but then, it’s no more inappropriate than their earlier behaviour. Spock stands there for an extra minute, just taking in the situation.

Then he brings the cloth and glass to the nightstand on Jim’s side. Jim opens his eyes enough to murmur, “Thanks, Spock.” But he doesn’t reach for either item and instead shuts his eyes again. Clearly, he doesn’t plan on leaving.

Spock doesn’t really want him to. Spock climbs into the other side, and they sleep together.


	6. Doves

“So when are you going to tell them about me?”

Spock glances up from the counter. His hand pauses in its task of dicing the fresh vegetables he’s only just harvested from the garden. Jim’s sprawled out at the dining table, thumbing through a PADD. When Spock doesn’t answer, he looks up and amends, “ _If_ you’re going to. Your people, I mean.” Spock still doesn’t have an answer. Jim tilts his head, expression mildly thoughtful, and tries, “Do you think I should meet them?”

The scene plays out in Spock’s mind yet again: Jim, dressed modestly in Vulcan robes, strolling out to meet the council, his mind wide open and his eyes so easy to fall into. He might be the same size as them, might be of similar configuration, but even if he came in a hood that covered his exotic ears, they would still know right away that he wasn’t one of them. He would smile too easily, maybe even offer out his hand, and captivate every person in the room.

Or he would disgust them, and the council would stoically hide such profound distaste behind thick, disapproving stares until Jim packed it up and went back where he came from. Spock knows his own experience is no basis on which to judge his people as a whole, but he can’t help but remember how difficult it was to fit in with only his career goals disparate from the rest. If Spock, a true _Vulcan_ , couldn’t survive in the capital, how would an alien ever manage?

Jim would find a way. Despite his intolerance for the heat and inability to withdraw his penchant for grins and touching, he seems infinitely adaptable. He waits for Spock, until Spock finally replies, “That is something for you to decide.”

Jim looks at him for a long moment. Spock wavers under the scrutiny and returns to his vegetables. He could, perhaps, give Jim advice on the likely outcome of such a meeting, but the decision itself should be Jim’s. 

“Alright,” Jim mumbles. “How about you come up with me, then?” Spock freezes. “Like, as a real possibility.”

There’s no easy response to that either. He’s thought of it already—thought of all the possibilities. Yet he has no conclusions. He slowly answers, “There would be many difficulties...”

Jim nods and patiently waits for more. He must realize all the problems, but Spock still lists aloud, “I would be leaving my world behind, including what few family ties I have. And I would be of little use to you on a ship I cannot control...”

“You could learn,” Jim says. He says it like Spock _would_ learn: like that’s a fact he’s confident of. Spock thinks he could _eventually_ , but in the meantime, he would surely be a burden. 

When it becomes clear that Spock’s deadlocked, Jim leans back in his chair and sighs, “Bah, I give up. It’s too hot to think.” His attention diverts back to his PADD, and he swipes through a few screens. The crude map Spock drew is still on there, and Jim turns it to him to ask, “So, what’s the beach like?”

Jim asks questions too broadly. Spock tells him, “It would be easier to show you.”

* * *

Spock drives the cruiser, with Jim balanced on the back, pulled up against him with both arms around his waist. He can feel Jim’s face buried in his shoulder. The cruiser’s shield deflects most of the dust, but the wind still whips along him, and it’s not enough to counteract the heat that Jim causes. Spock’s already applied sun-protection cream to Jim’s delicate skin, and though Jim’s since donned a white shirt and trousers over the swim trunks Spock provided, Spock can feel it in places—Jim’s hands are leaving a wet patch on his tunic, Jim’s nose slick against the back of his neck. Jim clutches to him so _tightly_ , but Spock can feel that he’s not afraid of falling off. He just likes to be as close to Spock as possible.

He admitted that last night, while the two of them were curled up in bed. Jim told him he was playing the ‘little spoon,’ but they could switch tomorrow. Spock had only accepted it and snuggled closer.

The temperature only cools marginally as they approach the Voroth sea, mounting a dry hill and descending to finally see the stretch of green-blue draped over the horizon. The water laps right up along the sand, highest this time of year, crashing over rocks a short ways out but gentle at the shore. There are no artificial structures for as far as they can see, but Spock knows there’s a small settlement not far from the eastern cliffs. Chances are, no one will come across them. The area’s already been mapped by planetary scanners, and there’s nothing else of value there.

Spock pulls the cruiser behind a particularly large rock to keep the metal in the shade, and the two of them climb off, Jim lightly sweating already and Spock ready for the water. He hasn’t been swimming in some time—not since a school field trip to the aquatics center, where they were graded on their swimming speed.

Despite his best efforts, Spock hadn’t scored particularly high, to Sarek’s plain disappointment. Somehow, Spock doesn’t think Jim will mind. 

Jim makes a noise with his lips that he calls ‘whistling’ and shields his eyes against the sun. “I knew all that desert had to break up sometime.”

“Your world contains less desert?” Spock surmises.

Jim laughs. “You guys make Earth look downright moist.” Then he immediately starts walking. Spock, after turning off the cruiser, follows. Only a few steps in, Jim’s stripping.

The wind isn’t particularly turbulent, and there are no predatory animals this close to the shore, nor anything that would bother to take Vulcan clothing, but Spock’s still surprised to see the ease with which Jim peels off his shirt and tosses it to the sand. He leaves it lying there, marching on, his shoulders glistening in the yellow glare, shimmering from both sweat and cream. It brings Spock back to the memory of spreading that protective cream all down Jim’s exposed back, gliding down Jim’s spine and even smoothing along his hips. It had proven an exercise in restraint. Jim doesn’t stop there. He unfastens his trousers as he goes, shedding them and stepping right out. He’d covered his legs himself—his back was the only part he couldn’t reach. Spock now finds himself wishing that Jim were less flexible. But then, surely he’d let Spock slide his hands _all over Jim’s body_ if Spock asked, because Jim displays himself like a wanton treat that exists solely to make Spock _sin_.

Spock purposely lifts his gaze from Jim, eyeing the water instead, and sheds his clothes in a similar fashion, but he folds them as he walks and sets them on the next rock he passes. Down to just his trunks, he’s reminded that Jim’s wearing _his_ trunks too.

Jim finally sets foot in the water. It laps around his ankles, leaving a gush of bubbly white foam in its wake, and Jim laughs delightedly. “I guess it was too much to ask for cool water... but hey, it’s not _too_ bad.”

Spock can’t imagine why Jim would expect the water to be anything but warm in the middle of the day. Maybe the oceans of Earth are different. Maybe someday Spock will visit them. 

When Spock reaches Jim’s side, Jim notes, “One last thing.” He fishes his communicator out of a single pocket on the right hip of his trunks, and Spock understands—the device likely wasn’t meant for extended underwater use. Jim holds it between them and says what Spock already knows: “We won’t be able to talk to each other if we go far enough away. But we can get through that.” Jim smiles like it’s no trouble, and Spock agrees—he can usually tell how Jim’s feeling without any verbal cues. He managed well enough before the communicator’s discovery, and they’ve only grown closer since.

Unlike his clothes, Jim picks a relatively flat, dry rock to carefully set the communicator down on. Then he’s back to Spock, even taking hold of Spock’s hand, and he drags Spock forward step by step. It isn’t until they’re nearly knee-deep that fish become visible as murky, dark shapes beneath the surface. Spock already explained to Jim at the house that the aquatic life near the shore is passive. It would take a good deal of swimming to reach the vicious predators that haunt the deep trenches of Vulcan—possibly more than Jim could manage in one sitting. There is, of course, always the possibility that something inane to Spock could prove poisonous to Jim, but there’s no way to know, and evidently, Jim doesn’t like to live his life airing on the side of caution. He keeps them going, and when a long vermilion eel slithers past them, Jim stops to eye it with appreciation. Vulcan sea life is a fascinating subject—Spock makes a mental note to enlighten Jim on the various local species when they return home. 

It isn’t until their feet have left the bottom that Spock wonders what exactly they’ll _do_ —Jim probably didn’t come to study the environment or to exercise. Jim eventually stops swimming, the coast now a thin line in the distance, and he turns to Spock to say... something.

The words come out in that strange, garbled language that he spoke the first day that he woke up. Spock answers, “I cannot understand you,” and Jim grins. He paddles closer to peck Spock’s cheek. Their legs bump beneath the water, lightly treading it, arms spreading out around them and ripples clashing. The kiss is all Spock needs to sense Jim’s amusement. Then Jim paddles back and abruptly splashes him—Spock splutters and swims backwards.

Jim chases him, laughing and splashing him again, reminding Spock of a careless child or a playful sehlat. He tries to dodge Jim’s homing attacks, but Jim keeps coming, until Spock finally returns the favour and sends a sizeable wave in Jim’s direction. 

Jim laughs louder when he’s hit. He scrunches his eyes closed, shaking out his hair, and it shines darker in the sun, plastering down across his forehead. The clear colour of the water and the endless background of the sky make his eyes look all the bluer. Spock doesn’t have the heart to splash him again.

Spock doesn’t have to—Jim settles. The next time Jim’s hands rise from the water, it’s to cup Spock’s face, and Spock’s given another kiss, this one longer, more languid, broken only when a curious llihc fish tries to pass through them. Its blunt, rubbery nose hits Spock’s side, and he moves back enough to let it slip between them and carry on. Jim snorts and watches it go, completely undisturbed at the fact that it’s as long as both of them combines. Its actual brain isn’t large enough to comprehend the need to go around a new obstacle. When it’s left their sights, swallowed up beneath the yellow coral dotting the sand below, Jim moves on. He shifts into a longer stroke and swims parallel to the beach. This, Spock understands. 

He joins Jim in five separate laps, stopping each time to share another kiss between. On the fifth one, they can’t seem to pull apart to earn a sixth. Jim parts their lips only to murmurs something across Spock’s, and his hand comes up to clasp Spock’s shoulder, sending a bolt of _want_ from Jim’s being into Spock’s. 

He’s the one that shifts them back towards the shore. Jim follows, chasing him with kisses. He knows what Jim wants, even though the things Jim purrs over the shallow waves don’t make any sense. Then they get close enough that a few of Jim’s words come through in Vulcan, and Spock, setting foot on the sand below, tells him, “Now.”

Jim stops with him, standing on the ground but still up to their chests in water. They’re glued together as Jim arches in for another kiss, then nips along his jaw to murmur in his ear, “I want more of you.”

Spock shudders and understands. He clutches Jim back, kisses Jim back, even as Jim breathes between kisses, “Want to be _in you_ , Spock, or have you in me, don’t care—”

Spock gasps when one of Jim’s searching hands slips beneath his trunks. The other is fisted in his hair, keeping him close, and his splay across Jim’s back, holding Jim against him. Jim runs along the curve of his rear and squeezes him. Spock rasps, “Jim—”

“Tell me I can.” Jim’s fingers pool between his cheeks, gliding down. Spock’s momentarily lost for words. Jim reaches his entrance and rubs at it, making it all the harder for Spock to concentrate, and Jim chuckles pleasantly, “Just like humans...”

It can’t be, Spock’s sure. There’s going to be differences—there’s got to be—he already knows that Jim’s heart beats in a different place, and Jim’s blood is the wrong colour entirely. But they must have the right equivalents, because clearly Jim knows what he’s doing, and Spock doesn’t stop him. Spock dips his head into the crook of Jim’s shoulder, burying his blush, licking Jim’s salty skin, and answers: “ _Yes._ ”

Jim’s too slow pushing in. He takes his time caressing Spock’s entrance, rubbing at the furrowed sides before he finally deigns to enter Spock, and then it’s all Spock can do to stay up—he’d drown if he didn’t have the sand below his feet, and he’d lose his footing if he didn’t have the water all around him. He clings onto Jim and doesn’t dare to touch Jim like that but _wants to_. He trails one hand lower, down to the small of Jim’s back, then cuts off as Jim reaches in to the knuckle. It feels _so good_ to have Jim in him—his channel responds by flexing around it, taking it in, shivering and clenching. Jim breathes, sounding strangely reverent, “Okay, maybe not _completely_ the same...” 

Spock doesn’t know what it feels like to be inside a human, but he wants to find out—will find out—another time, because right now this is all that he can take. Jim strokes him, and he opens, stretching—Jim adds a second finger, then a third, as though Spock wouldn’t already open up for him. This method of preparation is so much more _intense_. The electric current of their touch flares along his channel, the vague telepathy stronger for being _encased_ in him. Spock can feel just how much Jim wants him.

Spock wants it too. Spock tries again, “Jim—” and Jim understands, like they’re already bonded, like Spock’s whispered through a meld that he can’t wait much longer. They start to move together—Jim’s fingers slither out, leaving Spock horribly empty, but then they’re quickly wading up the beach. 

They go until they can collapse onto the sand, the tide still rushing in around them. Jim rolls up on top, leaving Spock lying on his back, Jim between his legs. Jim bends down to kiss him and rolls his trunks down his thighs. Spock lifts his hips to help and finds his hands moving beyond his control—he grabs at Jim’ trunks and wrenches them down, and Jim ruts gratefully into him, hard cock sliding across his stomach. Spock _needs_ it.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Jim mutters, nipping at Spock’s bottom lip and rising up again, only to trail his eyes and hands all down Spock’s body. Spock arches into every touch, reaching for Jim back. He shares the sentiment, but before he can verbally return it, Jim’s touching him between his legs again, and he can’t think enough to speak. Jim spreads two fingers over Spock’s hole and insists, “I want you so much...”

Spock spreads his legs wider. It’s all he can manage. Jim takes the invitation and draws one up to kiss Spock’s knee, then takes hold of his own cock—Spock’s eyes instantly glue to it. He watches Jim draw himself back beyond Spock’s crotch, and then Spock can feel the spongy head of Jim’s cock nudging at his entrance. But Jim stops, looking up again to check, “Can I...?”

“Yes,” Spock answers before Jim can even finish. For Jim, he’d say yes to anything. And if Jim doesn’t push inside him soon, Spock knows he’s going to roll them over and plug Jim up and fuck him hard into the sand.

Jim nods, and it happens—he pushes forward, the tip popping inside, and it’s all Spock can do not to scream out with pleasure. His fingers curl against Jim’s skin, blunt tips digging down, thighs tensing and clutching to Jim’s waist. Jim groans but keeps pushing—Spock offers no resistance. The water still rushes up between them, splashing and tickling him with little stray droplets, but then Jim makes it all the way inside and closes up the gap. Buried to the hilt, Jim stills.

He takes a minute, just breathing, filling Spock so much. Spock luxuriates in it and tries to give them both time to adjust. It feels amazing, right down to his core. Their connection is the strongest point. When Spock can’t stand it anymore, he draws Jim down to him, and Jim drifts back to ghost a slow kiss across his lips.

Moving his hips, Jim pulls back and rolls in. A river of _pleasure_ washes through Spock. He touches Jim’s cheek, and though they aren’t melded, Jim shudders like he can _feel_ it. Spock can feel the impression of Jim’s own pleasure, the dual sensations ricocheting back and forth between them. Jim does it again—he pulls away and pushes in, rocks forward, works into a stead beat of leaving Spock too empty and filling him up again. Jim reaches deep and pulses hot. Slick with the warm water still lapping at their sides, Jim fucks Spock with abandon.

That first time is _wild_. It’s raw and passionate, and Spock doesn’t know where to touch, so he touches everywhere—there are no limits anymore, no boundaries—they work in unison, and Spock meets every thrust. Jim press a thumb against his chin and bids his mouth open—Spock parts his lips as wide as he can and lets Jim’s tongue lick him out. He licks Jim back when he gets the chance, closing against Jim and opening again, rolling their tongues between their mouths. The _heat_ is overwhelming. The sand, the sun, the water and Jim’s body—it eats away at him, but they burn together, neither willing to miss a beat. Every bit of it’s exquisite.

Perhaps if they were at home, under the cool embrace of the air conditioner, bonded for months and less eager to explore every last millimeter of one another’s bodies, melded enough to hold one another back, they could last. But Jim’s growling too soon, “Spock, gonna—”

Spock knows. He’s so close too. Every delicious slide of Jim’s cock undoes him that little more. He’s never been so full, so overwhelmed. He grabs at Jim’s shoulders, meaning just to crush Jim down into him, but something takes over, and they go rolling sideways—Jim hits the ground with a little, “Oomph,” still embedded in Spock’s body. Spock rises up to straddle Jim’s lap and lifts up with his thighs, then drops all his weight, impaling himself and crying out. He starts to bounce on Jim’s dick like he’s two days into _pon farr_ and can’t want a thing but _sex_. All he wants is _Jim_. He fucks himself fiercely on Jim’s cock, while Jim holds onto his hips and looks up at him with a dizzying array of _love_.

It’s that, more than anything, that proves too much for Spock. But Jim finishes first, hips suddenly slamming up as he screams, and he bursts inside Spock’s body—Spock can feel the wet squelch and rush of Jim’s seed inside him. Jim’s fingers dig into Spock’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, and the look on Jim’s face pushes Spock over the edge. He comes across Jim’s chest with a ragged cry, still bouncing for all he’s worth.

It really does feel like _pon farr_ come early. His orgasm is torrential, and it lasts, clouding Spock’s mind with a haze of all-consuming pleasure. He barely even notices when his hips finally slow—just that he’s come to slouch over Jim, one hand on either side of Jim’s head, looking down at Jim and mesmerized. His cock twitches, still semi-hard, against Jim’s dripping chest, slicked with water, sweat, and cum. Spock doesn’t want to let Jim out of him. 

But Jim wriggles his hips and groans, and Spock feels his soreness. Spock lifts gingerly off. As soon as Jim slips out of him, he’s empty again, but it’s bearable, because Jim’s mess is still clinging to his channel. Spock clenches around it and lowers to the sand. 

For a long while the two of them lie there, basking in the afterglow, saying nothing. The sound of the wind and waves dominates their silence. Jim idly reaches up to stroke Spock’s arm at one point, but he does nothing more than trace lazy patterns across Spock’s skin. The extra simulation keeps Spock from coming down. Eventually, Jim’s eyes trail Spock’s body and linger on his cock, only half flagged. Jim’s is completely limp, spent. Jim must be exhausted.

He still murmurs eventually, “Give me a little longer, and you should have your turn.”

There’s no need for that. And Spock doesn’t want to hurt Jim. But Jim looks at Spock like he needs it, and he seems to read Spock’s thoughts, pushing breathlessly: “Spock, I _want_ you in me.”

Spock has no walls left. He turns to latch onto Jim’s side and kisses Jim again, lightly caressing and enjoying him until they can start again.

* * *

The sky is turning purple by the time that they get home, both unruly and fatigued, in desperate need of showers. Spock makes them do so separately, because he still has trouble keeping his hands off of Jim, and that’s a habit that needs undoing immediately. It doesn’t stop Jim from trying.

Spock goes first, while Jim naps, naked, in his bedroom, which he sets to a frigid temperature that Spock avoids. When Spock’s finished in the washroom, he gently wakes Jim, suggesting Jim’s shower wait for tomorrow despite the smell. Jim sluggishly gets up and goes off anyway.

Spock synthesizes dinner alone but waits for Jim to eat it. He spends the time between meditating at the dinner table, and it comes strangely easy. He feels calm, comfortable, _complete._ But then when Jim emerges, fresh but still tired-looking, wearing one of Spock’s longer beige robes, a troublesome thought comes into Spock’s mind. Jim smiles softly when Spock serves him dinner, and he eats it without complain. Spock sits across from him and wonders if, for a creature so expressive and outgoing as Jim, Spock could possibly be enough to offer the same sense of completion.

He would leave it be, because he doesn’t _want_ to pick at that thought, but Jim looks up at him expectantly. Either Spock’s getting worse at hiding his emotions, or the tentative bond formed by the overload of sex is as strong for Jim as it is for Spock. Jim asks, “What is it?”

Spock carefully considers his wording before managing, “Can you truly be content with just one Vulcan?”

Jim frowns. Spock already knows he could’ve said it better—he just implied that otherwise things would stay like this, just the two of them, when clearly Jim has to leave eventually. Jim’s gaze trails away. 

He admits, “I would like to know how others would react to me... but that reaction’s not always good, and it’s hard to know who to trust with such a big revelation... not everyone’s as mature as you.” Spock takes that as a compliment but considers his people, on the whole, rather mature. Perhaps they would wish to turn Jim’s people away, or perhaps they would wish for government observation and take Jim away from Spock, but they would do so only voluntarily, and they wouldn’t prove _untrustworthy._ Jim continues, “I mean, given how isolated you are just for being _interested_ in space, I can imagine it won’t be a welcome subject...”

“That is not entirely my reason.” It’s a lot of it, but not all. “My choice was more to do with immediate family—my father would not approve.”

Jim tells him, “I’m sorry,” and says it with such a swell of sympathy. 

Spock appreciates it, yet feels the need to correct, “It is not entirely untenable. My father is an intelligent man.” Jim expression says it doesn’t matter, but speaking of his father aloud brings a subconscious thought to the surface—one that, Spock realizes, has been around for awhile. For Jim’s sake, he speaks it. “Faced with proof of other life, he would accept it. He has a deeper knowledge of the political system, and... I believe he would be a good candidate for your next introduction.”

Silence is his answer. Spock fills it with a deliberate bite of cubic rice. 

After another bite, Jim says, “I’d like to meet your father.” There’s a strange inflection in his voice, like there’s another layer to the meaning. Wholly un-Vulcan nerves writhe beneath Spock’s skin.

He steadfast ignores them. He makes the right decision and announces, “I will invite him over for dinner.”

Jim nods. He stares at Spock a little longer. Spock feels as though he’s being read from the inside out. Then Jim quietly tells him, “You’re good at hiding your emotions, Spock. But sometimes... I can feel them. Even when we’re not touching.”

Spock’s side clenches. He _knows_. He murmurs, “Bonded Vulcans often can.” Jim tilts his head, and Spock clarifies, “But after a proper bonding and a deep mind meld...” Not just after vivid sex and sleeping in one another’s arms.

Jim asks, “What are mind melds?”

So Spock, hand clenched tight around his fork, explains.


	7. Spring

The satellite dishes mounted on the roof successfully stream all their data to Spock’s home computer, but Spock himself is the one who sorts through it. He compiles neat, orderly reports, though his people, as a whole, have shown no interest in receiving them. He still considers releasing the information publicly, though for the moment, they’re merely saved into the deep recesses of his personal computer. Someday, perhaps, the scientific community will prove more receptive.

His father—

Spock doesn’t finish the thought. He shuts it down, as he’s been doing for most of the day, and continues with his work. There’s a thin tremor of anxiety within him, but it’s a wholly unproductive element, and he does his best not to surrender to his nerves. Completing simple, repetitive tasks somewhat helps. Spock’s fingers carry on until he hears the patio door slide open. Jim’s home.

Spock still continues, albeit slower. He doesn’t have to call out any greeting—Jim stops into the kitchen, lets the sink run presumably for water, then appears in the doorway of Spock’s study. His tunic is off, chest slicked with sweat and breathing hard, skin stained an attractive coral colour. He finishes his water and comes to set the empty glass down on Spock’s desk, then leans over Spock, wrapping strong arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss against his temple. Spock leans back in his chair, accepting that he’ll get no more done for the moment.

Jim tells him, “That was a good trip—I got most of the hardware fixed, and I think I found the issue with navigation. With luck, the shuttle will be up and running in a few days.”

“Impressive,” Spock relays. Jim chuckles and gives Spock another kiss. The scent of him is particularly intense after his sun exposure. Spock brings one hand up to lay across Jim’s arm, and he glances back to take in the full extent of Jim’s body, temptingly exposed. It’s clear that Jim intends to take up the rest of his night. He turns back to his computer and closes down the program.

A communication blinks onto the newly blank screen. Spock instantly tenses. There’s only one person it could be from. Jim seems to grasp the seriousness—he straightens out, withdrawing his hands from Spock’s body.

After a split-second spent centering himself, Spock clicks open the communication. To his illogical relief, it isn’t a video request, merely a simple line of text. As it’s written in Vulcan, Spock translates for Jim, “My father has a conference in a nearby city tomorrow afternoon. He will stop by afterwards for dinner.”

At first, Jim doesn’t say anything. He might be waiting to see how Spock reacts, but Spock attempts to show no reaction at all. He closes the communication and turns off the console.

But he remains in his chair for an extra moment, and Jim drapes back over him, silently radiating the comfort that Spock didn’t ask for. Jim always seems to know just what he needs.

Then Jim murmurs teasingly, “What should I wear?”

* * *

Spock answers the door alone. It’s late in the evening by the time the computer alerts him to his guest, but that’s to be expected—the trip to Spock’s home, even from the closest settlement and with a hybrid hovercar on full speed, is a considerable distance. Spock knows that his father’s aide will have driven at a reasonable speed, reasoning that Spock can wait.

Spock can, and has, after a long day spent achieving very little—neither he nor Jim left the building, and conversations were kept light, easy. In the entrance hall, Jim’s presence would be welcome, but this is something Spock has to do alone. He commands the door: “Open,” and it obeys.

The brown slab slides back to reveal Sarek, as tall and stoic as Spock remembers, only a few extra grey hairs different in his appearance. He offers no smile, not even a hint of it in his eyes. Spock has to greet first, “Live long and prosper, father.” His hand lifts in the familiar salute, which Sarek mirrors, but he doesn’t say the words. Spock can do nothing but continue, “Please, come in.” He steps aside. The white hovercar is visible in the distance, just a little ways down the rocky path, and Spock half expects his father to return to it.

But Sarek comes inside, and the door slides shut behind him before Spock can see his ride pull off. Spock waits an extra moment, giving Sarek a chance to look around. It’s his first time visiting, but he doesn’t glance even a fraction sideways. His unemotional gaze is fixed on Spock. He asks, “Shall we proceed to the dining hall?”

Of course there is no genial exchange. Of course Sarek doesn’t comment on Spock’s home or ask why he was invited; he must just assume that Spock has finally come around. Spock had thought it strange before that his father so easily accepted the invitation, but now it all makes sense: clearly, his father expects him to admit defeat. Spock is still relatively young, and he has plenty of time to denounce his chosen interest and reapply for the Vulcan Science Academy. The last time they spoke, Sarek made it clear that they had nothing else to discuss.

Sarek never saw the possibilities that Spock did. Spock leads him through the home, taking the direct rather than scenic route, straight through into the kitchen and dining room, where Jim stands, waiting. He straightens as soon as they near him, and for the first time in Spock’s life, he hears his father’s steps falter.

Spock continues on, turning to stand between them. Before he can make any introductions, Jim lifts his hand, now managing to hold his fingers apart in the way that Spock showed him. He’s been practicing in the last few days, and he recites without help of the translator, “ _Live long and prosper, Sarek of Vulcan._ ”

Sarek _stares_. He lifts his own hand, but slowly, as though moving purely on auto-pilot, and he still says nothing in return. Despite Spock’s instructions, Spock can see the beginnings of a smile tugging at Jim’s lips. Spock announces for him, “This is James Kirk of Earth, a planet approximately sixteen lightyears away from Vulcan.”

Sarek doesn’t bat an eyelash. Jim slowly lowers his hand, and when no one else breaks the thundering silence, he asks, “Should we sit down?”

“An adequate idea,” Sarek answers, eyes glued to Jim, but not at all in the way that Spock’s usually are. Jim doesn’t seem bothered by it—he crosses around the table and takes a seat at the side. Sarek stiffly moves to take the seat across from him, and Spock takes a quick trip to the kitchen.

He serves three tall glasses of water, a mixed salad and a light soup, all made fresh from the garden, nothing synthesized. It isn’t until he’s taken a seat next to Jim that Sarek finally turns to him, surmising, “So this is why you wished to speak with me. You found...” he hesitates, something rather uncharacteristic, and eventually settles on, “this.”

“A human,” Jim provides.

It doesn’t translate well, having no Vulcan equivalent. Sarek says, “I am unfamiliar with the term.”

“It’s what my people are called,” Jim explains, and Spock can practically see his father noting the way that Jim’s language occasionally slurs together, the computerized voice-over tinged with an incredibly informal accent. Clearly, Jim is no child, and he behaves politely, but Spock still knows his father is silently forming judgment. Jim continues on, “We were here exploring—peacefully, I promise. We’ve been mapping the systems beyond our own, looking, in particular, for anything _new_.”

“Would it not all be new?” Sarek interjects after Jim’s pause—like Spock, he won’t understand, at first, that simply gathering data on traversable space isn’t enough for Jim’s kind.

“More than that,” Jim clarifies. There’s a note of laughter in his voice, but he keeps it down. Given how amiable Jim usually appears, Spock can’t help but be impressed with Jim’s diplomacy. “I mean entirely new phenomenon, and above all... _life_.”

There’s another pause, during which Spock, alone, eats. When Jim takes a conspicuous bite of his salad, Sarek finally adds, “It seems an illogical choice to conduct first conduct with a lone individual, rather than the designated governing body of our planet.”

Jim nods his agreement. Spock finds himself hoping that Jim won’t outright lie, but will omit a small truth: that his people make such fallible equipment as to accidentally fall from space. 

Jim carefully answers, “It wasn’t my intention. My craft suffered unforeseen difficulties in your exosphere. I was able to steer my descent towards what my scanners read as a largely unpopulated area.”

Sarek glances at Spock, who continues to eat his salad without eyeing either party. That becomes more difficult when Jim looks at him too, and Spock can sense a swell of affection from where their knees are almost touching beneath the table. 

“Spock found me,” Jim adds quietly, “and cared for me. If he hadn’t been out here, I think I would’ve just been swallowed up in the Voroth sands.”

His pronunciation is nearly perfect. But his hand shifts along the tabletop, nudging against the side of Spock’s. He seems to remember just in time not to outright hold it, and he slides his hand away a second later, but Spock knows his father will have already caught the movement. He waits for judgment to come.

It’s another good while before Sarek admits, “This is a considerable amount to take in.”

“You’re welcome to take any scans if you like, to confirm I’m not Vulcan,” Jim offers, but that much is already obvious.

Sarek assures him, “It did not even occur to me that Spock would lie to me. I am sure you are what you say.”

Jim looks a tad surprised but nods. Sarek seems to accept it, and then he turns to Spock and bluntly asks, “Are you content together?”

Spock’s throat is horribly dry. But he answers without hesitation: “Yes.”

Jim hides his smile in a sizeable bite of salad. He doesn’t provide his own answer, but he doesn’t need to—his emotions are unguarded and obvious. Spock can’t help but wonder if this is the last night his father will ever speak to him.

He tells himself it wouldn’t matter, as that was already a possibility, but there is no sense in lying to oneself. Spock absently stirs his soup until Sarek all but sighs, “This is very sudden.”

“It is not,” Spock counters, because: “This is right.”

He knows it. And if Sarek is as astute as he always seemed, he’ll deduce that too. And perhaps he can already understand the subtle under-layer of what Spock means: what exactly Jim is to him. 

Perhaps a hushed, ambient composition would have been good to set, but it’s too late now, and the faint, intermittent clicking of cutlery against dishes is all that plays for a good while. Spock tries not to spend that time analyzing everything that was said, because he doesn’t yet have all the data. It’s the most tense meal he and Jim have ever shared, but that was too be expected.

It isn’t until Sarek’s soup is nearly gone that he announces, his eyes still on his bowl, “I am not too proud to admit that I was wrong about life beyond our world.” Jim’s head lifts up, and Spock snaps sharply to attention. Turning a loaded gaze to Jim, Sarek asks, “Do you intend to take my son away?” 

It’s the first time Sarek’s referred to Spock as _his son_ in a long time. Jim moves again, and this time, his hand slips right over Spock, unmistakably curling into it. Sarek must already know what they are, even if he doesn’t understand the way that humans _touch_. There’s still every bit as much gravity behind the gesture. Jim answers, “That’s up to Spock. But I wouldn’t mind staying a while longer, so I could learn more of your people.”

To Spock’s surprise, Sarek says, “We are clearly very different. However, perhaps there is something we might learn from yours as well.”

A smile spreads over Jim’s face. The sense of harmony that swells through his hand stirs Spock’s memory, taking him back to a moment when he was young, incredibly so, and his mother, still there and full of _life_ , proudly asked Sarek to teach their son Surak’s greatest principle: _Infinity Diversity in Infinite Combinations_. 

He remembers Sarek teaching him to draw the IDIC symbol. For his father and his peers, it seemed to get lost along the way. But Spock always remembered it.

They eat the rest of their dinner around a slow ebb of new questions, and they stay at the table long after their plates are clean.

* * *

When the hovercar has signaled its return, Spock escorts his father to the door alone. The two of them walk in silence, but before Sarek leaves, he splays his hand and offers, “Peace and long life.”

Spock returns the sentiment. Sarek walks to his ride without looking back. Spock still feels as though they’ve left on better terms. Even if it was all by chance, he’s proven that his interests weren’t all doomed to be fruitless. There is value in his research. If Sarek can be convinced, so can others. 

Sarek won’t tell anyone of Jim before they’re ready—Spock’s confident of that. How and when they introduce Jim to the council are issues for another night. For the moment, Spock returns to the dining room, only to see the dishes have all been put away. He finds Jim in the living room, sitting on the couch in the dim light, peering absently over the veranda. Spock comes to settle down beside him, no longer keeping any distance—he lets their sides touch, lets Jim turn back to him and ask, “What do you really want to do?”

Spock knows exactly what Jim means. “I want to be amongst the stars.” He’s thought of it extensively and concludes, “But first, I would like to help my people grow in this way. There is much to gain from exposure to other cultures.”

“You’re right,” Jim says, like that’s all his people wanted from the beginning. “I think both of our worlds would benefit. And when it starts, I don’t think I’ll be the only human reaching out anymore. And, hey, if anything goes wrong... we can still always take off together.” He reaches out to clasp Spock’s hand, slipping right into it, fingers intertwining. Spock can feel Jim’s heartbeat through his skin. 

Spock’s free hand rises. Without thinking, he splays it across Jim’s handsome face, lining up with all the right points of contact. Jim doesn’t waver, just tells him, “Do it.”

Maybe Spock should explain it. But he feels like he already has—like Jim already knows everything, and Jim wants it, wants them to diminish this one last barrier. Jim presses, breathy and meaningful, “ _Spock_.”

With a warm, fluid ease, Spock washes forward, and at the same time, _Jim_ rises up to meet him—Spock’s eyes fall closed. Their minds come together, weaving through one another, becoming _one_. The meld is the smoothest it could possibly be. Spock already has footholds in Jim’s consciousness, and his own being is dotted with signs of _Jim_. Jim melts into him, coiling right through him—and Spock feels everything. 

He sees, through Jim’s eyes, how their dinner went—how Jim _felt_ his anxiety and tried to hold that at bay for him, determined to be a pillar of strength and support, so _proud_ of him in a way that no one’s even been. He can sense Jim’s own nerves, Jim’s trepidation to appear before Spock’s father, knowing that he’d pulled Spock down into a torrid affair he wasn’t willing to leave, knowing he’d whisk Spock away in a heartbeat if he had to. There’s a fierce loyalty and protectiveness in Jim that’s rivaled only by _love_.

That love flows so deeply. It’s embedded in everything Spock touches. The memories come spilling out—sitting together in the garden, riding fast across the desert, swimming slowly against the tide. Spock sees himself sleeping through Jim’s eyes, hears Jim murmur, _“Good morning, beautiful,”_ and meaning every word. There was no jest in it. From the moment Jim’s eyes first opened, peering out at a speechless stranger, there’d been a connection that Jim couldn’t understand. But he wanted it. He pursued it, and it was easy, because Spock wanted him too—Jim knew it. Jim had his own dreams before Spock—his own goals, his own life, friends, family—he wasn’t lonely. But meeting Spock was like waking from a dream for him, and he wouldn’t go back.

Spock was lonely. He knows that now. So, so palpably _alone_ , and Jim senses that, diving into Spock’s being as deeply as Spock comes into his. There’s a wave of sympathy, compassion, all useless platitudes that Spock didn’t think he needed. But he treasures Jim’s care and holds onto it. He opens himself up and lets Jim see all the raw wounds that still live in him—his struggle with his classmates, his horrible _kahs-wan_ , his mother and her passing. The way losing her seemed to change his father. His father’s face when Spock expressed that he wanted to pursue his _passions_ instead of the path already laid for him.

Jim was like that too. Jim was so much worse. He was a crazed, bright-eyed child that would run everywhere and do everything, but devour books and push his way through schooling in record time—he was intelligent, determined, and unstoppable. Sometimes he lacked focus, or focused on the impossible. He’d be a commander of his own ship in a few years time, if he could learn to just follow the rules.

But then he never would have met Spock, and he’s so _grateful_ for that. They both are. They swirl around one another’s thoughts and memories, dipping in and out, solidifying the tentative bond that was already there. Jim finds a word in Spock’s mind and asks through that connection, _“What is a t’hy’la?”_

 _“What you are to me,”_ Spock answers, because that’s the only way to explain it. It’s enough for Jim.

Jim breathes aloud, “My _t’hy’la_.” 

The mind meld gently dissolves around them. It leaves only the sincere, overwhelming sense of being _loved_. Spock’s fingers fall away from Jim’s face.

Jim catches them, wraps around them, and caresses them in a Vulcan kiss. Spock leans in for the human version.

The two of them make love within the starlight, bonded in all terms.


End file.
